THE  INN  0 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


N  MEMORIAM 


1864-5941 


THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 


BV  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


VILLA  RUBEIN,  and  Other  Stories 
THE  ISLAND  PHARISEES 
THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 
THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE  PATRICIAN 


A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

PLAYS:  THE  SILVER  BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 
JUSTICE 

THE  LITTLE  DREAM 
THE  PIGEON 
THE  ELDEST  SON 

MOODS,  SONGS,  and  DOGGERELS 


THE 
INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

STUDIES  AND  ESSAYS 


BY 

JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


**  Je  vous  dirai  que  Fexces  est  tou jours  un  mal." 

— ANATOLE  FRANCE. 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1913 


REPLACING 

COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  October,  1912 

Reprinted  December,  1912 

February,  1913 

IN  MEMORIAL 


TO 
JOHN  WALLER  HILLS 


For  permission  to  reprint  these  Studies  the  Author's 
thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors  of  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
Scribner's  Magazine,  English  Review,  Atlantic  Monthly, 
Century  Magazine,  Nation,  Eye-Witness,  and  Daily  News. 


CONTENTS 
CONCERNING  LIFE 

PAGE 

THE   INN  OF   TRANQUILLITY  ......  3 

QUALITY   ...........      .  14 

MAGPIE   OVER  THE   HILL  .......  26 

SHEEP-SHEARING      ........      .  33 

EVOLUTION    .      .      .........  40 

RIDING  IN  MIST       .........  47 

THE   PROCESSION      .........  54 

A  CHRISTIAN       ........      .      .  61 

WIND  IN  THE   ROCKS  ........  70 

MY   DISTANT  RELATIVE      .......  77 

THE   BLACK   GODMOTHER  .......  89 

THE   GRAND  JURY   ......      ...  97 

GONE   .............  113 

THRESHING     ........      ... 


THAT   OLD-TIME   PLACE       .......      127 

ix 


M141419 


x  CONTENTS 

PAOB 

ROMANCE — THREE   GLEAMS 132 

MEMORIES 139 

FELICITY 163 

CONCERNING  LETTERS 

A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 171 

SOME  PLATITUDES  CONCERNING  DRAMA  .    .    189 

MEDITATION   ON   FINALITY 203 

WANTED — SCHOOLING 

ON   OUR  DISLIKE   OF  THINGS  AS  THEY  ARE. 
THE   WINDLESTRAW       .      •      .      •      .      .      .      • 

ABOUT   CENSORSHIP 236 

VAGUE  THOUGHTS   ON   ART    .      .      .  t..  ....  .      • 


CONCERNING  LIFE 


THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

TNDER  a  burning  blue  sky,  among  the  pine- 
V_/  trees  and  junipers,  the  cypresses  and  olives 
of  that  Odyssean  coast,  we  came  one  afternoon 
on  a  pink  house  bearing  the  legend:  "Osteria  di 
Tranquillita";  and,  partly  because  of  the  name, 
and  partly  because  we  did  not  expect  to  find  a 
house  at  all  in  those  goat-haunted  groves  above 
the  waves,  we  tarried  for  contemplation.  To  the 
familiar  simplicity  of  that  Italian  building  there 
were  not  lacking  signs  of  a  certain  spiritual 
change,  for  out  of  the  olive-grove  which  grew  to 
its  very  doors  a  skittle-alley  had  been  formed, 
and  two  baby  cypress-trees  were  cut  into  the 
effigies  of  a  cock  and  hen.  The  song  of  a  gramo- 
phone, too,  was  breaking  forth  into  the  air,  as 
it  were  the  presiding  voice  of  a  high  and  cos- 
mopolitan mind.  And,  lost  in  admiration,  we 
became  conscious  of  the  odour  of  a  full-flavoured 
cigar.  Yes — in  the  skittle-alley  a  gentleman  was 
standing  who  wore  a  bowler  hat,  a  bright  brown 
suit,  pink  tie,  and  very  yellow  boots.  His  head 
was  round,  his  cheeks  fat  and  well-coloured,  his 

3 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

lips  red  and  full  under  a  black  moustache,  and 
he  was  regarding  us  through  very  thick  and  half- 
closed  eyelids. 

Perceiving  him  to  be  the  proprietor  of  the  high 
and  cosmopolitan  mind,  we  accosted  him. 

"Good-day!"  he  replied:  "I  spik  English. 
Been  in  Amurrica — yes." 

"You  have  a  lovely  place  here." 

Sweeping  a  glance  over  the  skittle-alley,  he  sent 
forth  a  long  puff  of  smoke;  then,  turning  to  my 
companion  (of  the  politer  sex)  with  the  air  of  one 
who  has  made  himself  perfect  master  of  a  foreign 
tongue,  he  smiled,  and  spoke. 

"Too— quiet!" 

"Precisely;  the  name  of  your  inn,  perhaps,  sug- 
gests— 

"I  change  all  that — soon  I  call  it  Anglo-Ameri- 
can hotel." 

"Ah!  yes;  you  are  very  up-to-date  already." 

He  closed  one  eye  and  smiled. 

Having  passed  a  few  more  compliments,  we 
saluted  and  walked  on;  and,  coming  presently  to 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  lay  down  on  the  thyme  and 
the  crumbled  leaf-dust.  All  the  small  singing 
birds  had  long  been  shot  and  eaten;  there  came 
to  us  no  sound  but  that  of  the  waves  swimming 
in  on  a  gentle  south  wind.  The  wanton  creatures 

4 


THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

seemed  stretching  out  white  arms  to  the  land, 
flying  desperately  from  a  sea  of  such  stupendous 
serenity;  and  over  their  bare  shoulders  their  hair 
floated  back,  pale  in  the  sunshine.  If  the  air  was 
void  of  sound,  it  was  full  of  scent — that  delicious 
and  enlivening  perfume  of  mingled  gum,  and 
herbs,  and  sweet  wood  being  burned  somewhere 
a  long  way  off;  and  a  silky,  golden  warmth  slanted 
on  to  us  through  the  olives  and  umbrella  pines. 
Large  wine-red  violets  were  growing  near.  On 
such  a  cliff  might  Theocritus  have  lain,  spinning 
his  songs;  on  that  divine  sea  Odysseus  should 
have  passed.  And  we  felt  that  presently  the 
goat-god  must  put  his  head  forth  from  behind 
a  rock. 

It  seemed  a  little  queer  that  our  friend  in  the 
bowler  hat  should  move  and  breathe  within  one 
short  flight  of  a  cuckoo  from  this  home  of  Pan. 
One  could  not  but  at  first  feelingly  remember  the 
old  Boer  saying:  "0  God,  what  things  man  sees 
when  he  goes  out  without  a  gun!"  But  soon  the 
infinite  incongruity  of  this  juxtaposition  began  to 
produce  within  one  a  curious  eagerness,  a  sort  of 
half-philosophical  delight.  It  began  to  seem  too 
good,  almost  too  romantic,  to  be  true.  To  think 
of  the  gramophone  wedded  to  the  thin  sweet  sing- 
ing of  the  olive  leaves  in  the  evening  wind;  to 

5 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

remember  the  scent  of  his  rank  cigar  marrying 
with  this  wild  incense;  to  read  that  enchanted 
name,  "Inn  of  Tranquillity/'  and  hear  the  bland 
and  affable  remark  of  the  gentleman  who  owned 
it — such  were,  indeed,  phenomena  to  stimulate 
souls  to  speculation.  And  all  unconsciously  one 
began  to  justify  them  by  thoughts  of  the  other 
incongruities  of  existence — the  strange,  the  pas- 
sionate incongruities  of  youth  and  age,  wealth  and 
poverty,  life  and  death;  the  wonderful  odd  bed- 
fellows of  this  world;  all  those  lurid  contrasts 
which  haunt  a  man's  spirit  till  sometimes  he  is 
ready  to  cry  out:  "Rather  than  live  where  such 
things  can  be,  let  me  die!" 

Like  a  wild  bird  tracking  through  the  air,  one's 
meditation  wandered  on,  following  that  trail  of 
thought,  till  the  chance  encounter  became  spirit- 
ually luminous.  That  Italian  gentleman  of  the 
world,  with  his  bowler  hat,  his  skittle-alley,  his 
gramophone,  who  had  planted  himself  down  in 
this  temple  of  wild  harmony,  was  he  not  Progress 
itself — the  blind  figure  with  the  stomach  full  of 
new  meats  and  the  brain  of  raw  notions?  Was 
he  not  the  very  embodiment  of  the  wonderful 
child,  Civilisation,  so  possessed  by  a  new  toy  each 
day  that  she  has  no  time  to  master  its  use — 
naive  creature  lost  amid  her  own  discoveries! 

6 


THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

Was  he  not  the  very  symbol  of  that  which  was 
making  economists  thin,  thinkers  pale,  artists  hag- 
gard, statesmen  bald — the  symbol  of  Indigestion 
Incarnate!  Did  he  not,  delicious,  gross,  uncon- 
scious man,  personify  beneath  his  Americo-Italian 
polish  all  those  rank  and  primitive  instincts,  whose 
satisfaction  necessitated  the  million  miseries  of  his 
fellows;  all  those  thick  rapacities  which  stir  the 
hatred  of  the  humane  and  thin-skinned!  And  yet, 
one's  meditation  could  not  stop  there — it  was  not 
convenient  to  the  heart! 

A  little  above  us,  among  the  olive-trees,  two 
blue-clothed  peasants,  man  and  woman,  were 
gathering  the  fruit — from  some  such  couple,  no 
doubt,  our  friend  in  the  bowler  hat  had  sprung; 
more  "virile"  and  adventurous  than  his  brothers, 
he  had  not  stayed  in  the  home  groves,  but  had 
gone  forth  to  drink  the  waters  of  hustle  and  com- 
merce, and  come  back — what  he  was.  And  he, 
in  turn,  would  beget  children,  and  having  made 
his  pile  out  of  his  'Anglo-American  hotel'  would 
place  those  children  beyond  the  coarser  influences 
of  life,  till  they  became,  perhaps,  even  as  our- 
selves, the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  despised  him. 
And  I  thought:  "I  do  not  despise  those  peasants 
— far  from  it.  I  do  not  despise  myself — no  more 
than  reason;  why,  then,  despise  my  friend  in  the 

7 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

bowler  hat,  who  is,  after  all,  but  the  necessary 
link  between  them  and  me?"  I  did  not  despise 
the  olive-trees,  the  warm  sun,  the  pine  scent,  all 
those  material  things  which  had  made  him  so 
thick  and  strong;  I  did  not  despise  the  golden, 
tenuous  imaginings  which  the  trees  and  rocks  and 
sea  were  starting  in  my  own  spirit.  Why,  then, 
despise  the  skittle-alley,  the  gramophone,  those 
expressions  of  the  spirit  of  my  friend  in  the  billy- 
cock hat?  To  despise  them  was  ridiculous! 

And  suddenly  I  was  visited  by  a  sensation  only 
to  be  described  as  a  sort  of  smiling  certainty, 
emanating  from,  and,  as  it  were,  still  tingling 
within  every  nerve  of  myself,  but  yet  vibrating 
harmoniously  with  the  world  around.  It  was  as 
if  I  had  suddenly  seen  what  was  the  truth  of  things; 
not  perhaps  to  anybody  else,  but  at  all  events  to 
me.  And  I  felt  at  once  tranquil  and  elated,  as 
when  something  is  met  with  which  rouses  and 
fascinates  in  a  man  all  his  faculties. 

"For,"  I  thought,  "if  it  is  ridiculous  in  me  to 
despise  my  friend — that  perfect  marvel  of  dis- 
harmony— it  is  ridiculous  in  me  to  despise  any- 
thing. If  he  is  a  little  bit  of  continuity,  as  per- 
fectly logical  an  expression  of  a  necessary  phase  or 
mood  of  existence  as  I  myself  am,  then,  surely, 
there  is  nothing  in  all  the  world  that  is  not  a  little 

8 


THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

bit  of  continuity,  the  expression  of  a  little  neces- 
sary mood.  Yes/'  I  thought,  "he  and  I,  and 
those  olive-trees,  and  this  spider  on  my  hand,  and 
everything  in  the  Universe  which  has  an  individual 
shape,  are  all  fit  expressions  of  the  separate  moods 
of  a  great  underlying  Mood  or  Principle,  which 
must  be  perfectly  adjusted,  volving  and  revolving 
on  itself.  For  if  It  did  not  volve  and  revolve  on 
Itself,  It  would  peter  out  at  one  end  or  the  other, 
and  the  image  of  this  petering  out  no  man  with 
his  mental  apparatus  can  conceive.  Therefore, 
one  must  conclude  It  to  be  perfectly  adjusted  and 
everlasting.  But  if  It  is  perfectly  adjusted  and 
everlasting,  we  are  all  little  bits  of  continuity,  and 
if  we  are  all  little  bits  of  continuity  it  is  ridicu- 
lous for  one  of  us  to  despise  another.  So,"  I 
thought,  "I  have  now  proved  it  from  my  friend 
in  the  billy-cock  hat  up  to  the  Universe,  and  from 
the  Universe  down,  back  again  to  my  friend." 

And  I  lay  on  my  back  and  looked  at  the  sky. 
It  seemed  friendly  to  my  thought  with  its  smile, 
and  few  white  clouds,  saffron-tinged  like  the 
plumes  of  a  white  duck  in  sunlight.  "And  yet," 
I  wondered,  "though  my  friend  and  I  may  be 
equally  necessary,  I  am  certainly  irritated  by  him, 
and  shall  as  certainly  continue  to  be  irritated, 
not  only  by  him,  but  by  a  thousand  other  men  and 

9 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

things.  And  as  to  the  things  that  I  love  and  ad- 
mire, am  I  to  suppress  these  loves  and  admirations 
because  I  know  them  merely  to  be  the  necessary 
expressions  of  the  moods  of  an  underlying  Prin- 
ciple that  turns  and  turns  on  Itself?  Does  not 
this  way  nullity  lie?"  But  then  I  thought:  "Not 
so;  for  you  cannot  believe  in  the  great  adjusted 
Mood  or  Principle  without  believing  in  each  little 
and  individual  part  of  It.  And  you  are  yourself 
a  little  individual  part;  therefore  you  must  be- 
lieve in  that  little  individual  part  which  is  you, 
with  all  its  natural  likings  and  dislikings,  and, 
indeed,  you  cannot  show  your  belief  except  by 
expression  of  those  likings  and  dislikings.  And 
so,  with  a  light  heart,  you  may  go  on  being  irri- 
tated with  your  friend  in  the  bowler  hat,  you  may 
go  on  loving  those  peasants  and  this  sky  and  sea. 
But,  since  you  have  this  theory  of  life,  you  may 
not  despise  any  one  or  any  thing,  not  even  a  skittle- 
alley,  for  they  are  all  threaded  to  you,  and  to  de- 
spise them  would  be  to  blaspheme  against  contin- 
uity, and  to  blaspheme  against  continuity  would 
be  to  deny  Eternity.  Love  you  cannot  help,  and 
hate  you  cannot  help;  but  contempt  is — for  you 
— the  sovereign  idiocy,  the  irreligious  fancy!" 

There  was  a  bee  weighing  down  a  blossom  of 
thyme  close  by,  and  underneath  the  stalk  a  very 

10 


THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

ugly  little  centipede.  The  wild  bee,  with  his 
little  dark  body  and  his  busy  bear's  legs,  was  lovely 
to  me,  and  the  creepy  centipede  gave  me  shud- 
derings;  but  it  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  feel  so  sure 
that  he,  no  less  than  the  bee,  was  a  little  mood 
expressing  himself  out  in  harmony  with  Design — 
a  tiny  thread  on  the  miraculous  quilt.  And  I 
looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  zest  and  curiosity; 
it  seemed  to  me  that  in  the  mystery  of  his  queer 
little  creepings  I  was  enjoying  the  Supreme  Mys- 
tery; and  I  thought:  "If  I  knew  all  about  that 
wriggling  beast,  then,  indeed,  I  might  despise  him; 
but,  truly,  if  I  knew  all  about  him  I  should  know 
all  about  everything — Mystery  would  be  gone, 
and  I  could  not  bear  to  live!" 

So  I  stirred  him  with  my  finger  and  he  went 
away. 

"But  how" — I  thought — "about  such  as  do 
not  feel  it  ridiculous  to  despise;  how  about  those 
whose  temperaments  and  religions  show  them  all 
things  so  plainly  that  they  know  they  are  right 
and  others  wrong?  They  must  be  in  a  bad  way!" 
And  for  some  seconds  I  felt  sorry  for  them,  and 
was  discouraged.  But  then  I  thought:  "Not 
at  all — obviously  not!  For  if  they  do  not  find 
it  ridiculous  to  feel  contempt,  they  are  perfectly 
right  to  feel  contempt,  it  being  natural  to  them; 

11 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

and  you  have  no  business  to  be  sorry  for  them, 
for  that  is,  after  all,  only  your  euphemism  for 
contempt.  They  are  all  right,  being  the  expres- 
sions of  contemptuous  moods,  having  religions 
and  so  forth,  suitable  to  these  moods;  and  the 
religion  of  your  mood  would  be  Greek  to  them, 
and  probably  a  matter  for  contempt.  But  this 
only  makes  it  the  more  interesting.  For  though 
to  you,  for  instance,  it  may  seem  impossible  to 
worship  Mystery  with  one  lobe  of  the  brain,  and 
with  the  other  to  explain  it,  the  thought  that  this 
may  not  seem  impossible  to  others  should  not 
discourage  you;  it  is  but  another  little  piece  of 
that  Mystery  which  makes  life  so  wonderful  and 
sweet." 

The  sun,  fallen  now  almost  to  the  level  of  the 
cliff,  was  slanting  upward  on  to  the  burnt-red 
pine  boughs,  which  had  taken  to  themselves  a 
quaint  resemblance  to  the  great  brown  limbs  of 
the  wild  men  Titian  drew  in  his  pagan  pictures, 
and  down  below  us  the  sea-nymphs,  still  swim- 
ming to  shore,  seemed  eager  to  embrace  them  in 
the  enchanted  groves.  All  was  fused  in  that 
golden  glow  of  the  sun  going  down — sea  and  land 
gathered  into  one  transcendent  mood  of  light  and 
colour,  as  if  Mystery  desired  to  bless  us  by  show- 
ing how  perfect  was  that  worshipful  adjustment, 

12 


THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 

whose  secret  we  could  never  know.  And  I  said 
to  myself:  "None  of  those  thoughts  of  yours  are 
new,  and  in  a  vague  way  even  you  have  thought 
them  before;  but  all  the  same,  they  have  given 
you  some  little  feeling  of  tranquillity." 

And  at  that  word  of  fear  I  rose  and  invited  my 
companion  to  return  toward  the  town.  But  as 
we  stealthily  crept  by  the  "Osteria  di  Tranquil- 
lita,"  our  friend  in  the  bowler  hat  came  out  with 
a  gun  over  his  shoulder  and  waved  his  hand 
toward  the  Inn. 

"You  come  again  in  two  week — I  change  all 
that!  And  now/'  he  added,  "I  go  to  shoot  little 
bird  or  two,"  and  he  disappeared  into  the  golden 
haze  under  the  olive-trees. 

A  minute  later  we  heard  his  gun  go  off,  and  re- 
turned homeward  with  a  prayer. 

1910. 


13 


QUALITY 

1KNEW  him  from  the  days  of  my  extreme 
youth,  because  he  made  my  father's  boots; 
inhabiting  with  his  elder  brother  two  little  shops 
let  into  one,  in  a  small  by-street — now  no  more, 
but  then  most  fashionably  placed  in  the  West  End. 
That  tenement  had  a  certain  quiet  distinction; 
there  was  no  sign  upon  its  face  that  he  made  for 
any  of  the  Royal  Family — merely  his  own  Ger- 
man name  of  Gessler  Brothers;  and  in  the  win- 
dow a  few  pairs  of  boots.  I  remember  that  it 
always  troubled  me  to  account  for  those  unvary- 
ing boots  in  the  window,  for  he  made  only  what 
was  ordered,  reaching  nothing  down,  and  it  seemed 
so  inconceivable  that  what  he  made  could  ever 
have  failed  to  fit.  Had  he  bought  them  to  put 
there?  That,  too,  seemed  inconceivable.  He 
would  never  have  tolerated  in  his  house  leather 
on  which  he  had  not  worked  himself.  Besides, 
they  were  too  beautiful — the  pair  of  pumps,  so 
inexpressibly  slim,  the  patent  leathers  with  cloth 
tops,  making  water  come  into  one's  mouth,  the  tall 
brown  riding  boots  with  marvellous  sooty  glow, 

14 


QUALITY 

as  if,  though  new,  they  had  been  worn  a  hundred 
years.  Those  pairs  could  only  have  been  made 
by  one  who  saw  before  him  the  Soul  of  Boot — so 
truly  were  they  prototypes  incarnating  the  very 
spirit  of  all  foot-gear.  These  thoughts,  of  course, 
came  to  me  later,  though  even  when  I  was  pro- 
moted to  him,  at  the  age  of  perhaps  fourteen, 
some  inkling  haunted  me  of  the  dignity  of  himself 
and  brother.  For  to  make  boots — such  boots  as 
he  made — seemed  to  me  then,  and  still  seems  to 
me,  mysterious  and  wonderful. 

I  remember  well  my  shy  remark,  one  day,  while 
stretching  out  to  him  my  youthful  foot: 

"Isn't  it  awfully  hard  to  do,  Mr.  Gessler?" 

And  his  answer,  given  with  a  sudden  smile 
from  out  of  the  sardonic  redness  of  his  beard: 
"Id  is  an  Ardt!" 

Himself,  he  was  a  little  as  if  made  from  leather, 
with  his  yellow  crinkly  face,  and  crinkly  reddish 
hair  and  beard,  and  neat  folds  slanting  down  his 
cheeks  to  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  his  gut- 
tural and  one-toned  voice;  for  leather  is  a  sardonic 
substance,  and  stiff  and  slow  of  purpose.  And 
that  was  the  character  of  his  face,  save  that  his 
eyes,  which  were  grey-blue,  had  in  them  the  sim- 
ple gravity  of  one  secretly  possessed  by  the  Ideal. 
His  elder  brother  was  so  very  like  him — though 

15 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

watery,  paler  in  every  way,  with  a  great  industry 
— that  sometimes  in  early  days  I  was  not  quite 
sure  of  him  until  the  interview  was  over.  Then 
I  knew  that  it  was  he,  if  the  words,  "I  will  ask 
my  brudder,"  had  not  been  spoken;  and  that,  if 
they  had,  it  was  his  elder  brother. 

When  one  grew  old  and  wild  and  ran  up  bills, 
one  somehow  never  ran  them  up  with  Gessler 
Brothers.  It  would  not  have  seemed  becoming 
to  go  in  there  and  stretch  out  one's  foot  to  that 
blue  iron-spectacled  glance,  owing  him  for  more 
than — say — two  pairs,  just  the  comfortable  re- 
assurance that  one  was  still  his  client. 

For  it  was  not  possible  to  go  to  him  very  often 
— his  boots  lasted  terribly,  having  something 
beyond  the  temporary — some,  as  it  were,  essence 
of  boot  stitched  into  them. 

One  went  in,  not  as  into  most  shops,  in  the 
mood  of:  "Please  serve  me,  and  let  me  go!"  but 
restfully,  as  one  enters  a  church;  and,  sitting  on 
the  single  wooden  chair,  waited — for  there  was 
never  anybody  there.  Soon,  over  the  top  edge 
of  that  sort  of  well — rather  dark,  and  smelling 
soothingly  of  leather — which  formed  the  shop, 
there  would  be  seen  his  face,  or  that  of  his  elder 
brother,  peering  down.  A  guttural  sound,  and 
the  tip-tap  of  bast  slippers  beating  the  narrow 

16 


QUALITY 

wooden  stairs,  and  he  would  stand  before  one 
without  coat,  a  little  bent,  in  leather  apron,  with 
sleeves  turned  back,  blinking — as  if  awakened 
from  some  dream  of  boots,  or  like  an  owl  sur- 
prised in  daylight  and  annoyed  at  this  inter- 
ruption. 

And  I  would  say:  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Gess- 
ler?  Could  you  make  me  a  pair  of  Russia  leather 
boots?" 

Without  a  word  he  would  leave  me,  retiring 
whence  he  came,  or  into  the  other  portion  of  the 
shop,  and  I  would  continue  to  rest  in  the  wooden 
chair,  inhaling  the  incense  of  his  trade.  Soon  he 
would  come  back,  holding  in  his  thin,  veined  hand 
a  piece  of  gold-brown  leather.  With  eyes  fixed 
on  it,  he  would  remark:  "What  a  beaudiful 
biece!"  When  I,  too,  had  admired  it,  he  would 
speak  again.  "When  do  you  wand  dem?"  And 
I  would  answer:  "Oh!  As  soon  as  you  conve- 
niently can."  And  he  would  say:  "To-morrow 
fordnighd?"  Or  if  he  were  his  elder  brother:  "I 
will  ask  my  brudder!" 

Then  I  would  murmur:  "Thank  you!  Good- 
morning,  Mr.  Gessler."  "Goot-morning!"  he 
would  reply,  still  looking  at  the  leather  in  his 
hand.  And  as  I  moved  to  the  door,  I  would  heaj 
the  tip-tap  of  his  bast  slippers  restoring  him,  up 

17 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

the  stairs,  to  his  dream  of  boots.  But  if  it  were 
some  new  kind  of  foot-gear  that  he  had  not  yet 
made  me,  then  indeed  he  would  observe  ceremony 
— divesting  me  of  my  boot  and  holding  it  long 
in  his  hand,  looking  at  it  with  eyes  at  once  criti- 
cal and  loving,  as  if  recalling  the  glow  with  which 
he  had  created  it,  and  rebuking  the  way  in  which 
one  had  disorganized  this  masterpiece.  Then, 
placing  my  foot  on  a  piece  of  paper,  he  would  two 
or  three  times  tickle  the  outer  edges  with  a  pen- 
cil and  pass  his  nervous  fingers  over  my  toes, 
feeling  himself  into  the  heart  of  my  requirements. 

I  cannot  forget  that  day  on  which  I  had  oc- 
casion to  say  to  him:  "Mr.  Gessler,  that  last  pair 
of  town  walking-boots  creaked,  you  know." 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  time  without  reprjdng, 
as  if  expecting  me  to  withdraw  or  qualify  the 
statement,  then  said: 

"Id  shouldn'd  'ave  greaked." 

"It  did,  I'm  afraid." 

"You  goddem  wed  before  dey  found  demselves?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

At  that  he  lowered  his  eyes,  as  if  hunting  for 
memory  of  those  boots,  and  I  felt  sorry  I  had 
mentioned  this  grave  thing. 

"Zend  dem  back!"  he  said;  "I  will  look  at 
dem." 

18 


QUALITY 

A  feeling  of  compassion  for  my  creaking  boots 
surged  up  in  me,  so  well  could  I  imagine  the  sor- 
rowful long  curiosity  of  regard  which  he  would 
bend  on  them. 

"Zome  boods,"  he  said  slowly,  "are  bad  from 
birdt.  If  I  can  do  noding  wid  dem,  I  dake  dem 
off  your  bill." 

Once  (once  only)  I  went  absent-mindedly  into 
his  shop  in  a  pair  of  boots  bought  in  an  emer- 
gency at  some  l&gQ  firm's.  He  took  my  order 
without  showing  me  any  leather,  and  I  could  feel 
his  eyes  penetrating  the  inferior  integument  of 
my  foot.  At  last  he  said: 

"Dose  are  nod  my  boods." 

The  tone  was  not  one  of  anger,  nor  of  sorrow, 
not  even  of  contempt,  but  there  was  in  it  some- 
thing quiet  that  froze  the  blood.  He  put  his 
hand  down  and  pressed  a  finger  on  the  place 
where  the  left  boot,  endeavouring  to  be  fashion- 
able, was  not  quite  comfortable. 

"Id  'urds  you  dere,"  he  said.  "Dose  big 
virms  'ave  no  self-respect.  Drash!"  And  then, 
as  if  something  had  given  way  within  him,  he 
spoke  long  and  bitterly.  It  was  the  only  time 
I  ever  heard  him  discuss  the  conditions  and  hard- 
ships of  his  trade. 

"Dey  get  id  all,"  he  said,  "dey  get  id  by  ad- 
19 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

verdisement,  nod  by  work.  Dey  dake  it  away 
from  us,  who  lofe  our  boods.  Id  gomes  to  this 
— bresently  I  haf  no  work.  Every  year  id  gets 
less — you  will  see."  And  looking  at  his  lined 
face  I  saw  things  I  had  never  noticed  before,  bit- 
ter things  and  bitter  struggle — and  what  a  lot 
of  grey  hairs  there  seemed  suddenly  in  his  red 
beard! 

As  best  I  could,  I  explained  the  circumstances 
of  the  purchase  of  those  ill-omened  boots.  But 
his  face  and  voice  made  so  deep  impression  that 
during  the  next  few  minutes  I  ordered  many 
pairs.  Nemesis  fell!  They  lasted  more  terribly 
than  ever.  And  I  was  not  able  conscientiously 
to  go  to  him  for  nearly  two  years. 

When  at  last  I  went  I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
outside  one  of  the  two  little  windows  of  his  shop 
another  name  was  painted,  also  that  of  a  boot- 
maker— making,  of  course,  for  the  Royal  Family. 
The  old  familiar  boots,  no  longer  in  dignified 
isolation,  were  huddled  in  the  single  window. 
Inside,  the  now  contracted  well  of  the  one  little 
shop  was  more  scented  and  darker  than  ever. 
And  it  was  longer  than  usual,  too,  before  a  face 
peered  down,  and  the  tip-tap  of  the  bast  slippers 
began.  At  last  he  stood  before  me,  and,  gazing 
through  those  rusty  iron  spectacles,  said: 

20 


QUALITY 

"Mr. ,  isn'd  it?" 

"Ah!  Mr.  Gessler,"  I  stammered,  "but  your 
boots  are  really  too  good,  you  know!  See,  these 
are  quite  decent  still !"  And  I  stretched  out  to 
him  my  foot.  He  looked  at  it. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "beople  do  nod  wand  good 
boods,  id  seems." 

To  get  away  from  his  reproachful  eyes  and 
voice  I  hastily  remarked:  "What  have  you  done 
to  your  shop?" 

He  answered  quietly:  "Id  was  too  exbensif. 
Do  you  wand  some  boods?" 

I  ordered  three  pairs,  though  I  had  only  wanted 
two,  and  quickly  left.  I  had,  I  do  not  know  quite 
what  feeling  of  being  part,  in  his  mind,  of  a  con- 
spiracy against  him;  or  not  perhaps  so  much 
against  him  as  against  his  idea  of  boot.  One 
does  not,  I  suppose,  care  to  feel  like  that;  for  it 
was  again  many  months  before  my  next  visit  to 
his  shop,  paid,  I  remember,  with  the  feeling:  "Oh! 
well,  I  can't  leave  the  old  boy — so  here  goes! 
Perhaps  it'll  be  his  elder  brother!" 

For  his  elder  brother,  I  knew,  had  not  char- 
acter enough  to  reproach  me,  even  dumbly. 

And,  to  my  relief,  in  the  shop  there  did  appear 
to  be  his  elder  brother,  handling  a  piece  of  leather. 

"Well,  Mr.  Gessler,"  I  said,  "how  are  you?" 
21 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

He  came  close,  and  peered  at  me. 

"I  am  breddy  well/7  he  said  slowly  "but  my 
elder  brudder  is  dead." 

And  I  saw  that  it  was  indeed  himself — but 
how  aged  and  wan!  And  never  before  had  I 
heard  him  mention  his  brother.  Much  shocked, 
I  murmured:  "Oh!  I  am  sorry !" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "he  was  a  good  man,  he 
made  a  good  bood;  but  he  is  dead."  And  he 
touched  the  top  of  his  head,  where  the  hair  had 
suddenly  gone  as  thin  as  it  had  been  on  that  of 
his  poor  brother,  to  indicate,  I  suppose,  the  cause 
of  death.  "He  could  nod  ged  over  losing  de 
oder  shop.  Do  you  wand  any  boods?"  And  he 
held  up  the  leather  in  his  hand:  "Id's  a  beaudi- 
ful  biece." 

I  ordered  several  pairs.  It  was  very  long  be- 
fore they  came — but  they  were  better  than  ever. 
One  simply  could  not  wear  them  out.  And  soon 
after  that  I  went  abroad. 

It  was  over  a  year  before  I  was  again  in  Lon- 
don. And  the  first  shop  I  went  to  was  my  old 
friend's.  I  had  left  a  man  of  sixty,  I  came  back 
to  one  of  seventy-five,  pinched  and  worn  and 
tremulous,  who  genuinely,  this  time,  did  not  at 
first  know  me. 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Gessler,"  I  said,  sick  at  heart ;  "  how 
22 


QUALITY 

splendid  your  boots  are!  See,  I've  been  wearing 
this  pair  nearly  all  the  time  I've  been  abroad; 
and  they're  not  half  worn  out,  are  they?" 

He  looked  long  at  my  boots — a  pair  of  Russia 
leather,  and  his  face  seemed  to  regain  steadiness. 
Putting  his  hand  on  my  instep,  he  said: 

"Do  dey  vid  you  here?  I  'ad  drouble  wid  dat 
bair,  I  remember." 

I  assured  him  that  they  had  fitted  beautifully. 

"Do  you  wand  any  boods?"  he  said.  "I  can 
make  dem  quickly;  id  is  a  slack  dime." 

I  answered:  "Please,  please!  I  want  boots  all 
round — every  kind!" 

"I  will  make  a  vresh  model.  Your  food  must 
be  bigger."  And  with  utter  slowness,  he  traced 
round  my  foot,  and  felt  my  toes,  only  once  look- 
ing up  to  say: 

"Did  I  dell  you  my  brudder  was  dead?" 

To  watch  him  was  painful,  so  feeble  had  he 
grown;  I  was  glad  to  get  away. 

I  had  given  those  boots  up,  when  one  evening 
they  came.  Opening  the  parcel,  I  set  the  four 
pairs  out  in  a  row.  Then  one  by  one  I  tried  them 
on.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  In  shape  and 
fit,  in  finish  and  quality  of  leather,  they  were  the 
best  he  had  ever  made  me.  And  in  the  mouth  of 
one  of  the  Town  walking-boots  I  found  his  bill. 

23 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

The  amount  was  the  same  as  usual,  but  it  gave  me 
quite  a  shock.  He  had  never  before  sent  it  in  till 
quarter  day.  I  flew  down-stairs,  and  wrote  a 
cheque,  and  posted  it  at  once  with  my  own  hand. 

A  week  later,  passing  the  little  street,  I  thought 
I  would  go  in  and  tell  him  how  splendidly  the  new 
boots  fitted.  But  when  I  came  to  where  his  shop 
had  been,  his  name  was  gone.  Still  there,  in  the 
window,  were  the  slim  pumps,  the  patent  leathers 
with  cloth  tops,  the  sooty  riding  boots. 

I  went  in,  very  much  disturbed.  In  the  two 
little  shops — again  made  into  one — was  a  young 
man  with  an  English  face. 

"Mr.  Gesslerin?"Isaid. 

He  gave  me  a  strange,  ingratiating  look. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said,  "no.  But  we  can  attend 
to  anything  with  pleasure.  We've  taken  the  shop 
over.  You've  seen  our  name,  no  doubt,  next 
door.  We  make  for  some  very  good  people." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said;  "but  Mr.  Gessler?" 

"Oh!"  he  answered;  "dead." 

"Dead!  But  I  only  received  these  boots  from 
him  last  Wednesday  week." 

"Ah!"  he  said;  "a  shockin'  go.  Poor  old  man 
starved  'imself." 

"Good  God!" 

"Slow  starvation,  the  doctor  called  it!  You 
24 


QUALITY 

see  he  went  to  work  in  such  a  way!  Would  keep 
the  shop  on;  wouldn't  have  a  soul  touch  his  boots 
except  himself.  When  he  got  an  order,  it  took 
him  such  a  time.  People  won't  wait.  He  lost 
everybody.  And  there  he'd  sit,  goin'  on  and  on 
— I  will  say  that  for  him — not  a  man  in  London 
made  a  better  boot !  But  look  at  the  competition ! 
He  never  advertised !  Would  'ave  the  best  leather, 
too,  and  do  it  all  'imself .  Well,  there  it  is.  What 
could  you  expect  with  his  ideas?" 

"But  starvation !" 

"That  may  be  a  bit  flowery,  as  the  sayin'  is — 
but  I  know  myself  he  was  sittin'  over  his  boots 
day  and  night,  to  the  very  last.  You  see  I  used 
to  watch  him.  Never  gave  'imself  tune  to  eat; 
never  had  a  penny  in  the  house.  All  went  in  rent 
and  leather.  How  he  lived  so  long  I  don't  know. 
He  regular  let  his  fire  go  out.  He  was  a  character. 
But  he  made  good  boots." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "he  made  good  boots." 

And  I  turned  and  went  out  quickly,  for  I  did 
not  want  that  youth  to  know  that  I  could  hardly 
see. 

1911. 


25 


MAGPIE  OVER  THE  HILL1 

1LAY  often  that  summer  on  a  slope  of  sand 
and  coarse  grass,  close  to  the  Cornish  sea,  try- 
ing to  catch  thoughts;  and  I  was  trying  very  hard 
when  I  saw  them  coming  hand  in  hand. 

She  was  dressed  in  blue  linen,  and  a  little  cloud 
of  honey-coloured  hair;  her  small  face  had  serious 
eyes  the  colour  of  the  chicory  flowers  she  was  hold- 
ing up  to  sniff  at — a  clean  sober  little  maid,  with 
a  very  touching  upward  look  of  trust.  Her  com- 
panion was  a  strong,  active  boy  of  perhaps  four- 
teen, and  he,  too,  was  serious — his  deep-set,  black- 
lashed  eyes  looked  down  at  her  with  a  queer 
protective  wonder,  the  while  he  explained  in  a 
soft  voice  broken  up  between  two  ages,  that  exact 
process  which  bees  adopt  to  draw  honey  out  of 
flowers.  Once  or  twice  this  hoarse  but  charm- 
ing voice  became  quite  fervent,  when  she  had 
evidently  failed  to  follow;  it  was  as  if  he  would 
have  been  impatient,  only  he  knew  he  must  not, 
because  she  was  a  lady  and  younger  than  himself, 
and  he  loved  her. 

They  sat  down  just  below  my  nook,  and  began 
26 


MAGPIE  OVER  THE  HILL 

to  count  the  petals  of  a  chicory  flower,  and  slowly 
she  nestled  in  to  him,  and  he  put  his  arm  round 
her.  Never  did  I  see  such  sedate,  sweet  lovering, 
so  trusting  on  her  part,  so  guardianlike  on  his. 
They  were  like,  in  miniature — though  more  dewy, 
— those  sober  couples  who  have  long  lived  to- 
gether, yet  whom  one  still  catches  looking  at  each 
other  with  confidential  tenderness,  and  in  whom, 
one  feels,  passion  is  atrophied  from  never  having 
been  in  use. 

Long  I  sat  watching  them  in  their  cool  com- 
munion, half-embraced,  talking  a  little,  smiling 
a  little,  never  once  kissing.  They  did  not  seem 
shy  of  that;  it  was  rather  as  if  they  were  too  much 
each  other's  to  think  of  such  a  thing.  And  then 
her  head  slid  lower  and  lower  down  his  shoulder, 
and  sleep  buttoned  the  lids  over  those  chicory- 
blue  eyes.  How  careful  he  was,  then,  not  to 
wake  her,  though  I  could  see  his  arm  was  getting 
stiff!  He  still  sat,  good  as  gold,  holding  her,  till  it 
began  quite  to  hurt  me  to  see  his  shoulder  thus 
in  chancery.  But  presently  I  saw  him  draw  his 
arm  away  ever  so  carefully,  lay  her  head  down 
on  the  grass,  and  lean  forward  to  stare  at  some- 
thing. Straight  in  front  of  them  was  a  magpie, 
balancing  itself  on  a  stripped  twig  of  thorn-tree. 
The  agitating  bird,  painted  of  night  and  day,  was 

27 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

making  a  queer  noise  and  flirting  one  wing,  as  if 
trying  to  attract  attention.  Rising  from  the 
twig,  it  circled,  vivid  and  stealthy,  twice  round 
the  tree,  and  flew  to  another  a  dozen  paces  off. 
The  boy  rose;  he  looked  at  his  little  mate,  looked 
at  the  bird,  and  began  quietly  to  move  toward 
it;  but  uttering  again  its  queer  call,  the  bird 
glided  on  to  a  third  thorn-tree.  The  boy  hesi- 
tated then — but  once  more  the  bird  flew  on,  and 
suddenly  dipped  over  the  hill.  I  saw  the  boy 
break  into  a  run;  and  getting  up  quickly,  I  ran 
too. 

When  I  reached  the  crest  there  was  the  black 
and  white  bird  flying  low  into  a  dell,  and  there 
the  boy,  with  hair  streaming  back,  was  rushing 
helter-skelter  down  the  hill.  He  reached  the  bot- 
tom and  vanished  into  the  dell.  I,  too,  ran  down 
the  hill.  For  all  that  I  was  prying  and  must  not 
be  seen  by  bird  or  boy,  I  crept  warily  in  among 
the  trees  to  the  edge  of  a  pool  that  could  know 
but  little  sunlight,  so  thickly  arched  was  it  by 
willows,  birch-trees,  and  wild  hazel.  There,  in 
a  swing  of  boughs  above  the  water,  was  perched 
no  pied  bird,  but  a  young,  dark-haired  girl  with 
dangling,  bare,  brown  legs.  And  on  the  brink  of 
the  black  water  goldened  with  fallen  leaves,  the 
boy  was  crouching,  gazing  up  at  her  with  all  his 

28 


MAGPIE  OVER  THE  HILL 

soul.  She  swung  just  out  of  reach  and  looked 
down  at  him  across  the  pool.  How  old  was  she, 
with  her  brown  limbs,  and  her  gleaming,  slanting 
eyes?  Or  was  she  only  the  spirit  of  the  dell,  this 
elf-thing  swinging  there,  entwined  with  boughs 
and  the  dark  water,  and  covered  with  a  shift  of 
wet  birch  leaves.  So  strange  a  face  she  had,  wild, 
almost  wicked,  yet  so  tender;  a  face  that  I  could 
not  take  my  eyes  from.  Her  bare  toes  just 
touched  the  pool,  and  flicked  up  drops  of  water 
that  fell  on  the  boy's  face. 

From  him  all  the  sober  steadfastness  was  gone; 
already  he  looked  as  wild  as  she,  and  his  arms 
were  stretched  out  trying  to  reach  her  feet.  I 
wanted  to  cry  to  him:  "Go  back,  boy,  go  back!" 
but  could  not;  her  elf  eyes  held  me  dumb — they 
looked  so  lost  in  their  tender  wildness. 

And  then  my  heart  stood  still,  for  he  had  slipped 
and  was  struggling  in  deep  water  beneath  her 
feet.  What  a  gaze  was  that  he  was  turning  up 
to  her — not  frightened,  but  so  longing,  so  des- 
perate; and  hers — how  triumphant,  and  how 
happy! 

And  then  he  clutched  her  foot,  and  clung,  and 
climbed;  and  bending  down,  she  drew  him  up  to 
her,  all  wet,  and  clasped  him  in  the  swing  of 
boughs. 

29 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

I  took  a  long  breath  then.  An  orange  gleam 
of  sunlight  had  flamed  in  among  the  shadows 
and  fell  round  those  two  where  they  swung  over 
the  dark  water,  with  lips  close  together  and  spirits 
lost  in  one  another's,  and  in  their  eyes  such  drown- 
ing ecstasy!  And  then — they  kissed!  All  round 
me  pool,  and  leaves,  and  air  seemed  suddenly  to 
swirl  and  melt — I  could  see  nothing  plain!  .  .  . 
What  time  passed — I  do  not  know — before  their 
faces  slowly  again  became  visible!  His  face — 
the  sober  boy's — was  turned  away  from  her,  and 
he  was  listening;  for  above  the  whispering  of 
leaves  a  sound  of  weeping  came  from  over  the 
hill.  It  was  to  that  he  listened. 

And  even  as  I  looked  he  slid  down  from  out  of 
her  arms,  back  into  the  pool,  and  began  struggling 
to  gain  the  edge.  What  grief  and  longing  in  her 
wild  face  then!  But  she  did  not  wail.  She  did 
not  try  to  pull  him  back;  that  elfish  heart  of  dig- 
nity could  reach  out  to  what  was  coming,  it  could 
not  drag  at  what  was  gone.  Unmoving  as  the 
boughs  and  water,  she  watched  him  abandon  her. 

Slowly  the  struggling  boy  gained  land,  and 
lay  there,  breathless.  And  still  that  sound  of 
lonely  weeping  came  from  over  the  hill. 

Listening,  but  looking  at  those  wild,  mourning 
eyes  that  never  moved  from  him,  he  lay.  Once 

30 


MAGPIE  OVER  THE  HILL 

he  turned  back  toward  the  water,  but  fire  had 
died  within  him;  his  hands  dropped,  nerveless — 
his  young  face  was  all  bewilderment. 

And  the  quiet  darkness  of  the  pool  waited,  and 
the  trees,  and  those  lost  eyes  of  hers,  and  my 
heart.  And  ever  from  over  the  hill  came  the 
little  fair  maiden's  lonely  weeping. 

Then,  slowly  dragging  his  feet,  stumbling,  half- 
blinded,  turning  and  turning  to  look  back,  the 
boy  groped  his  way  out  through  the  trees  toward 
that  sound;  and,  as  he  went,  that  dark  spirit-elf, 
abandoned,  clasping  her  own  lithe  body  with  her 
arms,  never  moved  her  gaze  from  him. 

I,  too,  crept  away,  and  when  I  was  safe  outside 
in  the  pale  evening  sunlight,  peered  back  into  the 
dell.  There  under  the  dark  trees  she  was  no 
longer,  but  round  and  round  that  cage  of  passion, 
fluttering  and  wailing  through  the  leaves,  over  the 
black  water,  was  the  magpie,  flighting  on  its  twi- 
light wings. 

I  turned  and  ran  and  ran  till  I  came  over  the 
hill  and  saw  the  boy  and  the  little  fair,  sober 
maiden  sitting  together  once  more  on  the  open 
slope,  under  the  high  blue  heaven.  She  was 
nestling  her  tear-stained  face  against  his  shoulder 
and  speaking  already  of  indifferent  things.  And 
he — he  was  holding  her  with  his  arm  and  watch- 

31 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

ing  over  her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  see  some- 
thing else. 

And  so  I  lay,  hearing  their  sober  talk  and  gaz- 
ing at  their  sober  little  figures,  till  I  awoke  and 
knew  I  had  dreamed  all  that  little  allegory  of 
sacred  and  profane  love,  and  from  it  had  returned 
to  reason,  knowing  no  more  than  ever  which  was 
which. 

1912. 


SHEEP-SHEARING 

FROM  early  morning  there  had  been  bleating 
of  sheep  in  the  yard,  so  that  one  knew  the 
creatures  'were  being  sheared,  and  toward  evening 
I  went  along  to  see.  Thirty  or  forty  naked-look- 
ing ghosts  of  sheep  were  penned  against  the  barn, 
and  perhaps  a  dozen  still  inhabiting  their  coats. 
Into  the  wool  of  one  of  these  bulky  ewes  the  far- 
mer's small,  yellow-haired  daughter  was  twisting 
her  fist,  hustling  it  toward  Fate;  though  pulled 
almost  off  her  feet  by  the  frightened,  stubborn 
creature,  she  never  let  go,  till,  with  a  despairing 
cough,  the  ewe  had  passed  over  the  threshold 
and  was  fast  in  the  hands  of  a  shearer.  At  the 
far  end  of  the  barn,  close  by  the  doors,  I  stood  a 
minute  or  two  before  shifting  up  to  watch  the 
shearing.  Into  that  dim,  beautiful  home  of  age, 
with  its  great  rafters  and  mellow  stone  archways, 
the  June  sunlight  shone  through  loopholes  and 
chinks,  in  thin  glamour,  powdering  with  its  very 
strangeness  the  dark  cathedraled  air,  where,  high 
up,  clung  a  fog  of  old  grey  cobwebs  so  thick  as 
ever  were  the  stalactites  of  a  huge  cave.  At 

33 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

this  end  the  scent  of  sheep  and  wool  and  men  had 
not  yet  routed  that  home  essence  of  the  barn, 
like  the  savour  of  acorns  and  withering  beech 
leaves. 

They  were  shearing  by  hand  this  year,  nine  of 
them,  counting  the  postman,  who,  though  farm- 
bred,  "did'n  putt  much  to  the  shearing"  but  had 
come  to  round  the  sheep  up  and  give  general  aid. 

Sitting  on  the  creatures,  or  with  a  leg  firmly 
crooked  over  their  heads,  each  shearer,  even  the 
two  boys,  had  an  air  of  going  at  it  in  his  own  way. 
In  their  white  canvas  shearing  suits  they  worked 
very  steadily,  almost  in  silence,  as  if  drowsed  by 
the  "click-clip,  click-clip"  of  the  shears.  And 
the  sheep,  but  for  an  occasional  wriggle  of  legs 
or  head,  lay  quiet  enough,  having  an  inborn  sense 
perhaps  of  the  fitness  of  things,  even  when,  once 
in  a  way,  they  lost  more  than  wool;  glad  too, 
mayhap,  to  be  rid  of  their  matted  vestments. 
From  time  to  time  the  little  damsel  offered  each 
shearer  a  jug  and  glass,  but  no  man  drank  till 
he  had  finished  his  sheep;  then  he  would  get  up, 
stretch  his  cramped  muscles,  drink  deep,  and 
almost  instantly  sit  down  again  on  a  fresh  beast. 
And  always  there  was  the  buzz  of  flies  swarming 
in  the  sunlight  of  the  open  doorway,  the  dry 
rustle  of  the  pollarded  lime-trees  in  the  sharp  wind 

34 


SHEEP-SHEARING 

outside,  the  bleating  of  some  released  ewe,  upset 
at  her  own  nakedness,  the  scrape  and  shuffle  of 
heels  and  sheep's  limbs  on  the  floor,  together  with 
the  "click-clip,  click-clip"  of  the  shears. 

As  each  ewe,  finished  with,  struggled  up,  helped 
by  a  friendly  shove,  and  bolted  out  dazedly  into 
the  pen,  I  could  not  help  wondering  what  was 
passing  hi  her  head — in  the  heads  of  all  those 
unceremoniously  treated  creatures;  and,  moving 
nearer  to  the  postman,  I  said: 

"They're  really  very  good,  on  the  whole." 

He  looked  at  me,  I  thought,  queerly. 

"Yaas,"  he  answered;  "Mr.  Molton's  the  best 
of  them." 

I  looked  askance  at  Mr.  Molton;  but,  with  his 
knee  crooked  round  a  young  ewe,  he  was  shearing 
calmly. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "he  is  certainly  good." 

"Yaas,"  replied  the  postman. 

Edging  back  into  the  darkness,  away  from  that 
uncomprehending  youth,  I  escaped  into  the  air, 
and  passing  the  remains  of  last  year's  stacks  under 
the  tall,  toppling  elms,  sat  down  in  a  field  under 
the  bank.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  food  for 
thought.  In  that  little  misunderstanding  between 
me  and  the  postman  was  all  the  essence  of  the 
difference  between  that  state  of  civilisation  in 

35 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

which  sheep  could  prompt  a  sentiment,  and  that 
state  in  which  sheep  could  not. 

The  heat  from  the  dropping  sun,  not  far  now 
above  the  moorline,  struck  full  into  the  ferns  and 
long  grass  of  the  bank  where  I  was  sitting,  and 
the  midges  rioted  on  me  in  this  last  warmth. 
The  wind  was  barred  out,  so  that  one  had  the  full 
sweetness  of  the  clover,  fast  becoming  hay,  over 
which  the  swallows  were  wheeling  and  swooping 
after  flies.  And  far  up,  as  it  were  the  crown  of 
Nature's  beautiful  devouring  circle,  a  buzzard 
hawk,  almost  stationary  on  the  air,  floated,  in- 
tent on  something  pleasant  below  him.  A  num- 
ber of  little  hens  crept  through  the  gate  one  by 
one,  and  came  round  me.  It  seemed  to  them  that 
I  was  there  to  feed  them;  and  they  held  their 
neat  red  or  yellow  heads  to  one  side  and  the 
other,  inquiring  with  their  beady  eyes,  surprised 
at  my  stillness.  They  were  pretty  with  their 
speckled  feathers,  and  as  it  seemed  to  me,  plump 
and  young,  so  that  I  wondered  how  many  of  them 
would  in  time  feed  me.  Finding,  however,  that 
I  gave  them  nothing  to  eat,  they  went  away,  and 
there  arose,  in  place  of  their  clucking,  the  thin 
singing  of  air  passing  through  some  long  tube. 
I  knew  it  for  the  whining  of  my  dog,  who  had 
nosed  me  out,  but  could  not  get  through  the  pad- 

36 


SHEEP-SHEARING 

locked  gate.  And  as  I  lifted  him  over,  I  was  glad 
the  postman  could  not  see  me — for  I  felt  that  to 
lift  a  dog  over  a  gate  would  be  against  the  princi- 
ples of  one  for  whom  the  connection  of  sheep  with 
good  behaviour  had  been  too  strange  a  thought. 
And  it  suddenly  rushed  into  my  mind  that  the 
time  would  no  doubt  come  when  the  conduct  of 
apples,  being  plucked  from  the  mother  tree,  would 
inspire  us,  and  we  should  say:  "They're  really 
very  good!"  And  I  wondered,  were  those  future 
watchers  of  apple-gathering  farther  from  me  than 
I,  watching  sheep-shearing,  from  the  postman? 
I  thought,  too,  of  the  pretty  dreams  being  dreamt 
about  the  land,  and  of  the  people  who  dreamed 
them.  And  I  looked  at  that  land,  covered  with 
the  sweet  pinkish-green  of  the  clover,  and  con- 
sidered how  much  of  it,  through  the  medium  of 
sheep,  would  find  its  way  into  me,  to  enable  me  to 
come  out  here  and  be  eaten  by  midges,  and  specu- 
late about  things,  and  conceive  the  sentiment  of 
how  good  the  sheep  were.  And  it  all  seemed 
queer.  I  thought,  too,  of  a  world  entirely  com- 
posed of  people  who  could  see  the  sheen  rippling 
on  that  clover,  and  feel  a  sort  of  sweet  elation  at 
the  scent  of  it,  and  I  wondered  how  much  clover 
would  be  sown  then?  Many  things  I  thought  of, 
sitting  there,  till  the  sun  sank  below  the  moor- 

37 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

line,  the  wind  died  off  the  clover,  and  the  midges 
slept.  Here  and  there  in  the  iris-coloured  sky  a 
star  crept  out;  the  soft-hooting  owls  awoke.  But 
still  I  lingered,  watching  how,  one  after  another, 
shapes  and  colours  died  into  twilight;  and  I  won- 
dered what  the  postman  thought  of  twilight,  that 
inconvenient  state,  when  things  were  neither  dark 
nor  light;  and  I  wondered  what  the  sheep  were 
thinking  this  first  night  without  their  coats. 
Then,  slinking  along  the  hedge,  noiseless,  unheard 
by  my  sleeping  spaniel,  I  saw  a  tawny  dog  steal- 
ing by.  He  passed  without  seeing  us,  licking  his 
lean  chops. 

"Yes,  friend,"  I  thought,  "you  have  been  after 
something  very  unholy;  you  have  been  digging  up 
buried  lamb,  or  some  desirable  person  of  that  kind ! " 

Sneaking  past,  in  this  sweet  night,  which  stirred 
in  one  such  sentiment,  that  ghoulish  cur  was  like 
the  omnivorousness  of  Nature.  And  it  came  to 
me,  how  wonderful  and  queer  was  a  world  which 
embraced  within  it,  not  only  this  red  gloating 
dog,  fresh  from  his  feast  on  the  decaying  flesh  of 
lamb,  but  all  those  hundreds  of  beings  in  whom 
the  sight  of  a  fly  with  one  leg  shortened  produced 
a  quiver  of  compassion.  For  in  this  savage,  slink- 
ing shadow,  I  knew  that  I  had  beheld  a  manifes- 
tation of  divinity  no  less  than  in  the  smile  of  the 

38 


SHEEP-SHEARING 

sky,  each  minute  growing  more  starry.  With 
what  Harmony — I  thought — can  these  two  be 
enwrapped  in  this  round  world  so  fast  that  it 
cannot  be  moved!  What  secret,  marvellous,  all- 
pervading  Principle  can  harmonise  these  things! 
And  the  old  words  'good'  and  'evil'  seemed  to 
me  more  than  ever  quaint. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  the  dew  falling  fast; 
I  roused  my  spaniel  to  go  in. 

Over  the  high-walled  yard,  the  barns,  the  moon- 
white  porch,  dusk  had  brushedjts  velvet.  Through 
an  open  window  came  a  roaring  sound.  Mr. 
Molton  was  singing  "The  Happy  Warrior,"  to 
celebrate  the  finish  of  the  shearing.  The  big 
doors  into  the  garden,  passed  through,  cut  off  the 
full  sweetness  of  that  song;  for  there  the  owls  were 
already  masters  of  night  with  their  music. 

On  the  dew-whitened  grass  of  the  lawn,  we  came 
on  a  little  dark  beast.  My  spaniel,  liking  its 
savour,  stood  with  his  nose  at  point;  but,  being 
called  off,  I  could  feel  him  obedient,  still  quiver- 
ing, under  my  hand. 

In  the  field,  a  wan  huddle  in  the  blackness,  the 
dismantled  sheep  lay  under  a  holly  hedge.  The 
wind  had  died;  it  was  mist-warm. 

1910. 

39 


EVOLUTION 

COMING  out  of  the  theatre,  we  found  it  ut- 
terly impossible  to  get  a  taxicab;  and, 
though  it  was  raining  slightly,  walked  through 
Leicester  Square  in  the  hope  of  picking  one  up  as  it 
returned  down  Piccadilly.  Numbers  of  hansoms 
and  four-wheelers  passed,  or  stood  by  the  curb, 
hailing  us  feebly,  or  not  even  attempting  to  at- 
tract our  attention,  but  every  taxi  seemed  to  have 
its  load.  At  Piccadilly  Circus,  losing  patience, 
we  beckoned  to  a  four-wheeler  and  resigned  our- 
selves to  a  long,  slow  journey.  A  sou'-westerly 
air  blew  through  the  open  windows,  and  there  was 
in  it  the  scent  of  change,  that  wet  scent  which 
visits  even  the  hearts  of  towns  and  inspires  the 
watcher  of  their  myriad  activities  with  thought 
of  the  restless  Force  that  forever  cries:  "On,  on!" 
But  gradually  the  steady  patter  of  the  horse's 
hoofs,  the  rattling  of  the  windows,  the  slow  thud- 
ding of  the  wheels,  pressed  on  us  so  drowsily  that 
when,  at  last,  we  reached  home  we  were  more 
than  half  asleep.  The  fare  was  two  shillings,  and, 
standing  in  the  lamplight  to  make  sure  the  coin 

40 


EVOLUTION 

was  a  half-crown  before  handing  it  to  the  driver, 
we  happened  to  look  up.    This  cabman  appeared 
to  be  a  man  of  about  sixty,  with  a  long,  thin  face, 
whose  chin  and  drooping  grey  moustaches  seemed 
in  permanent  repose  on  the  up-turned  collar  of 
his  old  blue  overcoat.    But  the  remarkable  fea- 
tures of  his  face  were  the  two  furrows  down  his 
cheeks,  so  deep  and  hollow  that  it  seemed  as 
though  that  face  were  a  collection  of  bones  without 
coherent  flesh,  among  which  the  eyes  were  sunk 
back  so  far  that  they  had  lost  their  lustre.    He 
sat  quite  motionless,  gazing  at  the  tail  of  his  horse. 
And,  almost  unconsciously,  one  added  the  rest 
of  one's  silver  to  that  half-crown.    He  took  the 
coins  without  speaking;  but,  as  we  were  turning 
into  the  garden  gate,  we  heard  him  say : 
"Thank  you;  youVe  saved  my  life." 
Not  knowing,  either  of  us,  what  to  reply  to 
such  a  curious  speech,  we  closed  the  gate  again 
and  came  back  to  the  cab. 
"Are  things  so  very  bad?" 
"They  are,"  replied  the  cabman.     "It's  done 
with — is  this  job.    We're  not  wanted  now."  And, 
taking  up  his  whip,  he  prepared  to  drive  away. 
"How  long  have  they  been  as  bad  as  this?" 
The  cabman  dropped  his  hand  again,  as  though 
glad  to  rest  it,  and  answered  incoherently: 

41 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

"Thirty-five  year  I've  been  drivin'  a  cab." 
And,  sunk  again  in  contemplation  of  his  horse's 
tail,  he  could  only  be  roused  by  many  questions 
to  express  himself,  having,  as  it  seemed,  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  habit. 

"I  don't  blame  the  taxis,  I  don't  blame  nobody. 
It's  come  on  us,  that's  what  it  has.  I  left  the  wife 
this  morning  with  nothing  in  the  house.  She 
was  saying  to  me  only  yesterday:  'What  have 
you  brought  home  the  last  four  months?'  Tut 
it  at  six  shillings  a  week,'  I  said.  'No,'  she  said, 
'seven/  Well,  that's  right — she  enters  it  all  down 
in  her  book." 

"You  are  really  going  short  of  food?" 
The  cabman  smiled;  and  that  smile  between 
those  two  deep  hollows  was  surely  as  strange  as 
ever  shone  on  a  human  face. 

"You  may  say  that,"  he  said.  "Well,  what 
does  it  amount  to?  Before  I  picked  you  up,  I 
had  one  eighteenpenny  fare  to-day;  and  yesterday 
I  took  five  shillings.  And  I've  got  seven  bob  a 
day  to  pay  for  the  cab,  and  that's  low,  too. 
There's  many  and  many  a  proprietor  that's  broke 
and  gone — every  bit  as  bad  as  us.  They  let  us 
down  as  easy  as  ever  they  can;  you  can't  get 
blood  from  a  stone,  can  you?"  Once  again  he 
smiled.  "I'm  sorry  for  them,  too,  and  I'm  sorry 

42 


EVOLUTION 

for  the  horses,  though  they  come  out  best  of  the 
three  of  us,  I  do  belie ve." 

One  of  us  muttered  something  about  the 
Public. 

The  cabman  turned  his  face  and  stared  down 
through  the  darkness. 

"The  Public?"  he  said,  and  his  voice  had  in  it 
a  faint  surprise.  "Well,  they  all  want  the  taxis. 
It's  natural.  They  get  about  faster  in  them,  and 
time's  money.  I  was  seven  hours  before  I  picked 
you  up.  And  then  you  was  lookin'  for  a  taxi. 
Them  as  take  us  because  they  can't  get  better, 
they're  not  in  a  good  temper,  as  a  rule.  And 
there's  a  few  old  ladies  that's  frightened  of  the 
motors,  but  old  ladies  aren't  never  very  free  with 
their  money — can't  afford  to  be,  the  most  of  them, 
I  expect." 

"Everybody's  sorry  for  you;  one  would  have 
thought  that " 

He  interrupted  quietly:  "Sorrow  don't  buy 
bread.  ...  I  never  had  nobody  ask  me  about 
things  before."  And,  slowly  moving  his  long  face 
from  side  to  side,  he  added:  "Besides,  what  could 
people  do?  They  can't  be  expected  to  support 
you;  and  if  they  started  askin'  you  questions 
they'd  feel  it  very  awkward.  They  know  that,  I 
suspect.  Of  course,  there's  such  a  lot  of  us;  the 

43 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

hansoms  are  pretty  nigh  as  bad  off  as  we  are. 
Well,  we're  gettin'  fewer  every  day,  that's  one 
thing." 

Not  knowing  whether  or  no  to  manifest  sym- 
pathy with  this  extinction,  we  approached  the 
horse.  It  was  a  horse  that  " stood  over"  a  good 
deal  at  the  knee,  and  in  the  darkness  seemed  to 
have  innumerable  ribs.  And  suddenly  one  of  us 
said:  "Many  people  want  to  see  nothing  but  taxis 
on  the  streets,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  the  horses." 

The  cabman  nodded. 

"This  old  fellow,"  he  said,  "never  carried  a  deal 
of  flesh.  His  grub  don't  put  spirit  into  him  nowa- 
days; it's  not  up  to  much  in  quality,  but  he  gets 
enough  of  it." 

"And  you  don't?" 

The  cabman  again  took  up  his  whip. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  he  said  without  emotion, 
"any  one  could  ever  find  another  job  for  me  now. 
I've  been  at  this  too  long.  It'll  be  the  workhouse, 
if  it's  not  the  other  thing." 

And  hearing  us  mutter  that  it  seemed  cruel,  he 
smiled  for  the  third  time. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "it's  a  bit  'ard  on  us,  be- 
cause we've  done  nothing  to  deserve  it.  But 
things  are  like  that,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  One 
thing  comes  pushin'  out  another,  and  so  you  go 

44 


EVOLUTION 

on.  I've  thought  about  it — you  get  to  thinkin' 
and  worryin'  about  the  rights  o'  things,  sittin'  up 
here  all  day.  No,  I  don't  see  anything  for  it. 
It'll  soon  be  the  end  of  us  now — can't  last  much 
longer.  And  I  don't  know  that  I'll  be  sorry  to 
have  done  with  it.  It's  pretty  well  broke  my 
spirit." 

"There  was  a  fund  got  up." 

"Yes,  it  helped  a  few  of  us  to  learn  the  motor- 
drivin' ;  but  what's  the  good  of  that  to  me,  at  my 
time  of  life?  Sixty,  that's  my  age;  I'm  not  the 
only  one — there's  hundreds  like  me.  We're  not 
fit  for  it,  that's  the  fact;  we  haven't  got  the  nerve 
now.  It'd  want  a  mint  of  money  to  help  us. 
And  what  you  say's  the  truth — people  want  to  see 
the  end  of  us.  They  want  the  taxis — our  day's 
over.  I'm  not  complaining;  you  asked  me  about 
it  yourself." 

And  for  the  third  time  he  raised  his  whip. 

"Tell  me  what  you  would  have  done  if  you  had 
been  given  your  fare  and  just  sixpence  over?" 

The  cabman  stared  downward,  as  though  puz- 
zled by  that  question. 

"Done?  Why,  nothing.  What  could  I  have 
done?" 

"But  you  said  that  it  had  saved  your  life." 

"Yes,  I  said  that,"  he  answered  slowly;  "I  was 
45 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

feelin'  a  bit  low.  You  can't  help  it  sometimes; 
it's  the  thing  comin'  on  you,  and  no  way  out  of  it 
— that's  what  gets  over  you.  We  try  not  to  think 
about  it,  as  a  rule." 

And  this  time,  with  a  "Thank  you,  kindly!"  he 
touched  his  horse's  flank  with  the  whip.  Like  a 
thing  aroused  from  sleep  the  forgotten  creature 
started  and  began  to  draw  the  cabman  away 
from  us.  Very  slowly  they  travelled  down  the 
road  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees  broken  by 
lamplight.  Above  us,  white  ships  of  cloud  were 
sailing  rapidly  across  the  dark  river  of  sky  on  the 
wind  which  smelled  of  change.  And,  after  the 
cab  was  lost  to  sight,  that  wind  still  brought  to  us 
the  dying  sound  of  the  slow  wheels. 

1910. 


46 


RIDING  IN  MIST 

YT  7ET  and  hot,  having  her  winter  coat,  the 
V  V  mare  exactly  matched  the  drenched  fox- 
coloured  beech-leaf  drifts.  As  was  her  wont  on 
such  misty  days,  she  danced  along  with  head  held 
high,  her  neck  a  little  arched,  her  ears  pricked, 
pretending  that  things  were  not  what  they  seemed, 
and  now  and  then  vigorously  trying  to  leave  me 
planted  on  the  air.  Stones  which  had  rolled  out 
of  the  lane  banks  were  her  especial  goblins,  for 
one  such  had  maltreated  her  nerves  before  she 
came  into  this  ball-room  world,  and  she  had  not 
forgotten. 

There  was  no  wind  that  day.  On  the  beech- 
trees  were  still  just  enough  of  coppery  leaves  to 
look  like  fires  lighted  high-up  to  air  the  eeriness; 
but  most  of  the  twigs,  pearled  with  water,  were 
patterned  very  naked  against  universal  grey. 
Berries  were  few,  except  the  pink  spindle  one,  so 
far  the  most  beautiful,  of  which  there  were  more 
than  Earth  generally  vouchsafes.  There  was  no 
sound  in  the  deep  lanes,  none  of  that  sweet,  over- 
head sighing  of  yesterday  at  the  same  hour,  but 
there  was  a  quality  of  silence — a  dumb  mist  mur- 

47 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

muration.  We  passed  a  tree  with  a  proud  pigeon 
sitting  on  its  top  spire,  quite  too  heavy  for  the 
twig  delicacy  below;  undisturbed  by  the  mare's 
hoofs  or  the  creaking  of  saddle  leather,  he  let  us 
pass,  absorbed  in  his  world  of  tranquil  turtle- 
doves. The  mist  had  thickened  to  a  white,  in- 
finitesimal rain-dust,  and  in  it  the  trees  began  to 
look  strange,  as  though  they  had  lost  one  another. 
The  world  seemed  inhabited  only  by  quick,  sound- 
less wraiths  as  one  trotted  past. 

Close  to  a  farm-house  the  mare  stood  still  with 
that  extreme  suddenness  peculiar  to  her  at  times, 
and  four  black  pigs  scuttled  by  and  at  once  be- 
came white  air.  By  now  we  were  both  hot  and 
inclined  to  cling  closely  together  and  take  liber- 
ties with  each  other;  I  telling  her  about  her  na- 
ture, name,  and  appearance,  together  with  com- 
ments on  her  manners;  and  she  giving  forth  that 
sterterous,  sweet  snuffle,  which  begins  under  the 
star  on  her  forehead.  On  such  days  she  did  not 
sneeze,  reserving  those  expressions  of  her  joy  for 
sunny  days  and  the  crisp  winds.  At  a  forking  of 
the  ways  we  came  suddenly  on  one  grey  and  three 
brown  ponies,  who  shied  round  and  flung  away 
in  front  of  us,  a  vision  of  pretty  heads  and  haunches 
tangled  in  the  thin  lane,  till,  conscious  that  they 
were  beyond  their  beat,  they  faced  the  bank  and, 

48 


RIDING  IN  MIST 

one  by  one,  scrambled  over  to  join  the  other 
ghosts  out  on  the  dim  common. 

Dipping  down  now  over  the  road,  we  passed 
hounds  going  home.  Pied,  dumb-footed  shapes, 
padding  along  in  that  soft-eyed,  remote  world  of 
theirs,  with  a  tall  riding  splash  of  red  in  front, 
and  a  tall  splash  of  riding  red  behind.  Then 
through  a  gate  we  came  on  to  the  moor,  amongst 
whitened  furze.  The  mist  thickened.  A  curlew 
was  whistling  on  its  invisible  way,  far  up;  and 
that  wistful,  wild  calling  seemed  the  very  voice 
of  the  day.  Keeping  in  view  the  glint  of  the 
road,  we  galloped;  rejoicing,  both  of  us,  to  be 
free  of  the  jog-jog  of  the  lanes. 

And  first  the  voice  of  the  curlew  died;  then  the 
glint  of  the  road  vanished;  and  we  were  quite 
alone.  Even  the  furze  was  gone;  no  shape  of 
anything  left,  only  the  black,  peaty  ground,  and 
the  thickening  mist.  We  might  as  well  have  been 
that  lonely  bird  crossing  up  there  in  the  blind 
white  nothingness,  like  a  human  spirit  wandering 
on  the  undiscovered  moor  of  its  own  future. 

The  mare  jumped  a  pile  of  stones,  which  ap- 
peared, as  it  were,  after  we  had  passed  over;  and 
it  came  into  my  mind  that,  if  we  happened  to 
strike  one  of  the  old  quarry  pits,  we  should  in- 
fallibly be  killed.  Somehow,  there  was  pleasure 

49 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

in  this  thought,  that  we  might,  or  might  not, 
strike  that  old  quarry  pit.  The  blood  in  us  being 
hot,  we  had  pure  joy  in  charging  its  white,  im- 
palpable solidity,  which  made  way,  and  at  once 
closed  in  behind  us.  There  was  great  fun  in  this 
yard-by-yard  discovery  that  we  were  not  yet  dead, 
this  flying,  shelterless  challenge  to  whatever  might 
lie  out  there,  five  yards  in  front.  We  felt  su- 
premely above  the  wish  to  know  that  our  necks 
were  safe;  we  were  happy,  panting  in  the  vapour 
that  beat  against  our  faces  from  the  sheer  speed  of 
our  galloping.  Suddenly  the  ground  grew  lumpy 
and  made  up-hill.  The  mare  slackened  pace;  we 
stopped.  Before  us>  behind,  to  right  and  left, 
white  vapour.  No  sky,  no  distance,  barely  the 
earth.  No  wind  in  our  faces,  no  wind  anywhere. 
At  first  we  just  got  our  breath,  thought  nothing, 
talked  a  little.  Then  came  a  dullness,  a  faint 
clutching  over  the  heart.  The  mare  snuffled;  we 
turned  and  made  down-hill.  And  still  the  mist 
thickened,  and  seemed  to  darken  ever  so  little; 
we  went  slowly,  suddenly  doubtful  of  all  that  was 
in  front.  There  came  into  our  minds  visions,  so 
distant  in  that  darkening  vapour,  of  a  warm  stall 
and  manger  of  oats;  of  tea  and  a  log  fire.  The 
mist  seemed  to  have  fingers  now,  long,  dark- 
white,  crawling  fingers;  it  seemed,  too,  to  have  in 

50 


RIDING  IN  MIST 

its  sheer  silence  a  sort  of  muttered  menace,  a 
shuddery  lurkingness,  as  if  from  out  of  it  that 
spirit  of  the  unknown,  which  in  hot  blood  we  had 
just  now  so  gleefully  mocked,  were  creeping  up 
at  us,  intent  on  its  vengeance.  Since  the  ground 
no  longer  sloped,  we  could  not  go  down-hill;  there 
were  no  means  left  of  telling  in  what  direction  we 
were  moving,  and  we  stopped  to  listen.  There 
was  no  sound,  not  one  tiny  noise  of  water,  wind 
in  trees,  or  man;  not  even  of  birds  or  the  moor 
ponies.  And  the  mist  darkened.  The  mare 
reached  her  head  down  and  walked  on,  smelling 
at  the  heather;  every  time  she  sniffed,  one's  heart 
quivered,  hoping  she  had  found  the  way.  She 
threw  up  her  head,  snorted,  and  stood  still;  and 
there  passed  just  in  front  of  us  a  pony  and  her 
foal,  shapes  of  scampering  dusk,  whisked  like 
blurred  shadows  across  a  sheet.  Hoof-silent  in 
the  long  heather — as  ever  were  visiting  ghosts — 
they  were  gone  in  a  flash.  The  mare  plunged 
forward,  following.  But,  in  the  feel  of  her  gallop, 
and  the  feel  of  my  heart,  there  was  no  more  that 
ecstasy  of  facing  the  unknown;  there  was  only 
the  cold,  hasty  dread  of  loneliness.  Far  asunder 
as  the  poles  were  those  two  sensations,  evoked 
by  this  same  motion.  The  mare  swerved  vio- 
lently and  stopped.  There,  passing  within  three 

51 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

yards,  from  the  same  direction  as  before,  the  sound- 
less shapes  of  the  pony  and  her  foal  flew  by  again, 
more  intangible,  less  dusky  now  against  the  darker 
screen.  Were  we,  then,  to  be  haunted  by  those 
bewildering  uncanny  ones,  flitting  past  ever  from 
the  same  direction?  This  time  the  mare  did  not 
follow,  but  stood  still;  knowing  as  well  as  I  that 
direction  was  quite  lost.  Soon,  with  a  whimper, 
she  picked  her  way  on  again,  smelling  at  the 
heather.  And  the  mist  darkened! 

Then,  out  of  the  heart  of  that  dusky  whiteness, 
came  a  tiny  sound;  we  stood,  not  breathing,  turn- 
ing our  heads.  I  could  see  the  mare's  eye  fixed 
and  straining  at  the  vapour.  The  tiny  sound 
grew  till  it  became  the  muttering  of  wheels.  The 
mare  dashed  forward.  The  muttering  ceased  un- 
timely; but  she  did  not  stop;  turning  abruptly 
to  the  left,  she  slid,  scrambled,  and  dropped  into 
a  trot.  The  mist  seemed  whiter  below  us;  we 
were  on  the  road.  And  involuntarily  there  came 
from  me  a  sound,  not  quite  a  shout,  not  quite  an 
oath.  I  saw  the  mare's  eye  turn  back,  faintly 
derisive,  as  who  should  say :  Alone  I  did  it !  Then 
slowly,  comfortably,  a  little  ashamed,  we  jogged 
on,  in  the  mood  of  men  and  horses  when  danger 
is  over.  So  pleasant  it  seemed  now,  in  one  short 
half-hour,  to  have  passed  through  the  circle-swing 

52 


RIDING  IN  MIST 

of  the  emotions,  from  the  ecstasy  of  hot  reckless- 
ness to  the  clutching  of  chill  fear.  But  the  meet- 
ing-point of  those  two  sensations  we  had  left  out 
there  on  the  mysterious  moor!  Why,  at  one  mo- 
ment, had  we  thought  it  finer  than  anything  on 
earth  to  risk  the  breaking  of  our  necks;  and  the 
next,  shuddered  at  being  lost  in  the  darkening 
mist  with  winter  night  fast  coming  on? 

And  very  luxuriously  we  turned  once  more  into 
the  lanes,  enjoying  the  past,  scenting  the  future. 
Close  to  home,  the  first  little  eddy  of  wind  stirred, 
and  the  song  of  dripping  twigs  began;  an  owl 
hooted,  honey-soft,  in  the  fog.  We  came  on  two 
farm  hands  mending  the  lane  at  the  turn  of  the 
avenue,  and,  curled  on  the  top  of  the  bank,  their 
cosy  red  collie  pup,  waiting  for  them  to  finish 
work  for  the  day.  He  raised  his  sharp  nose  and 
looked  at  us  dewily.  We  turned  down,  padding 
softly  in  the  wet  fox-red  drifts  under  the  beech- 
trees,  whereon  the  last  leaves  still  flickered  out  in 
the  darkening  whiteness,  that  now  seemed  so  lit- 
tle eerie.  We  passed  the  grey-green  skeleton  of 
the  farm-yard  gate.  A  hen  ran  across  us,  cluck- 
ing, into  the  dusk.  The  mare  drew  her  long, 
home-coming  snuffle,  and  stood  still. 

1910. 


53 


THE  PROCESSION 

IN  one  of  those  corners  of  our  land  canopied  by 
the  fumes  of  blind  industry,  there  was,  on  that 
day,  a  lull  in  darkness.  A  fresh  wind  had  split  the 
customary  heaven,  or  roof  of  hell;  was  sweeping 
long  drifts  of  creamy  clouds  across  a  blue  still  pal- 
lid with  reek.  The  sun  even  shone — a  sun  whose 
face  seemed  white  and  wondering.  And  under 
that  rare  sun  all  the  little  town,  among  its  slag 
heaps  and  few  tall  chimneys,  had  an  air  of  living 
faster.  In  those  continuous  courts  and  alleys, 
where  the  women  worked,  smoke  from  each  little 
forge  rose  and  dispersed  into  the  wind  with  strange 
alacrity;  amongst  the  women,  too,  there  was  that 
same  eagerness,  for  the  sunshine  had  crept  in  and 
was  making  pale  all  those  dark-raftered,  sooted 
ceilings  which  covered  them  in,  together  with 
their  immortal  comrades,  the  small  open  furnaces. 
About  their  work  they  had  been  busy  since  seven 
o'clock;  their  feet  pressing  the  leather  lungs 
which  fanned  the  conical  heaps  of  glowing  fuel, 
their  hands  poking  into  the  glow  a  thin  iron  rod 
till  the  end  could  be  curved  into  a  fiery  hook; 
snapping  it  with  a  mallet;  threading  it  with  tongs 

54 


THE  PROCESSION 

on  to  the  chain;  hammering,  closing  the  link;  and, 
without  a  second's  pause,  thrusting  the  iron  rod 
again  into  the  glow.  And  while  they  worked 
they  chattered,  laughed  sometimes,  now  and  then 
sighed.  They  seemed  of  all  ages  and  all  types; 
from  her  who  looked  like  a  peasant  of  Provence, 
broad,  brown,  and  strong,  to  the  weariest  white 
consumptive  wisp;  from  old  women  of  seventy, 
with  straggling  grey  hair,  to  fifteen-year-old  girls. 
In  the  cottage  forges  there  would  be  but  one 
worker,  or  two  at  most;  in  the  shop  forges  four, 
or  even  five,  little  glowing  heaps;  four  or  five  of 
the  grimy,  pale  lung-bellows;  and  never  a  moment 
without  a  fiery  hook  about  to  take  its  place  on 
the  growing  chains,  never  a  second  when  the  thin 
smoke  of  the  forges,  and  of  those  lives  consuming 
slowly  in  front  of  them,  did  not  escape  from  out 
of  the  dingy,  whitewashed  spaces  past  the  dark 
rafters,  away  to  freedom. 

But  there  had  been  in  the  air  that  morning 
something  more  than  the  white  sunlight.  There 
had  been  anticipation.  And  at  two  o'clock  began 
fulfilment.  The  forges  were  stilled,  and  from 
court  and  alley  forth  came  the  women.  In  their 
ragged  working  clothes,  in  their  best  clothes— 
so  little  different;  in  bonnets,  in  hats,  bareheaded; 
with  babies  born  and  unborn,  they  swarmed  into 

55 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

the  high  street  and  formed  across  it  behind  the 
band.  A  strange,  magpie,  jay-like  flock;  black, 
white,  patched  with  brown  and  green  and  blue, 
shifting,  chattering,  laughing,  seeming  uncon- 
scious of  any  purpose.  A  thousand  and  more  of 
them,  with  faces  twisted  and  scored  by  those 
myriad  deformings  which  a  desperate  town-toil- 
ing and  little  food  fasten  on  human  visages;  yet 
with  hardly  a  single  evil  or  brutal  face.  Seem- 
ingly it  was  not  easy  to  be  evil  or  brutal  on  a  wage 
that  scarcely  bound  soul  and  body.  A  thousand 
and  more  of  the  poorest-paid  and  hardest-worked 
human  beings  in  the  world. 

On  the  pavement  alongside  this  strange,  acqui- 
escing assembly  of  revolt,  about  to  march  in  pro- 
test against  the  conditions  of  their  lives,  stood  a 
young  woman  without  a  hat  and  in  poor  clothes, 
but  with  a  sort  of  beauty  in  her  rough-haired,  high- 
cheek-boned,  dark-eyed  face.  She  was  not  one 
of  them;  yet,  by  a  stroke  of  Nature's  irony,  there 
was  graven  on  her  face  alone  of  all  those  faces, 
the  true  look  of  rebellion;  a  haughty,  almost  fierce, 
uneasy  look — an  untamed  look.  On  all  the  other 
thousand  faces  one  could  see  no  bitterness,  no 
fierceness,  not  even  enthusiasm;  only  a  half -stolid, 
half-vivacious  patience  and  eagerness  as  of  chil- 
dren going  to  a  party. 

56 


THE  PROCESSION 

The  band  played;  and  they  began  to  march. 
Laughing,  talking,  waving  flags,  trying  to  keep 
step;  with  the  same  expression  slowly  but  surely 
coming  over  every  face;  the  future  was  not;  only 
the  present — this  happy  present  of  marching  be- 
hind the  discordance  of  a  brass  band;  this  strange 
present  of  crowded  movement  and  laughter  in 
open  air. 

We  others — some  dozen  accidentals  like  my- 
self, and  the  tall,  grey-haired  lady  interested  in 
"the  people,"  together  with  those  few  kind  spirits 
in  charge  of  "the  show" — marched  too,  a  little 
self-conscious,  desiring  with  a  vague  military  sen- 
sation to  hold  our  heads  up,  but  not  too  much, 
under  the  eyes  of  the  curious  bystanders.  These 
— nearly  all  men — were  well-wishers,  it  was  said, 
though  their  faces,  pale  from  their  own  work  in. 
shop  or  furnace,  expressed  nothing  but  apathy. 
They  wished  well,  very  dumbly,  in  the  presence 
of  this  new  thing,  as  if  they  found  it  queer  that 
women  should  be  doing  something  for  themselves; 
queer  and  rather  dangerous.  A  few,  indeed,  shuf- 
fled along  between  the  column  and  the  little  hope- 
less shops  and  grimy  factory  sheds,  and  one  or 
two  accompanied  their  women,  carrying  the  baby. 
Now  and  then  there  passed  us  some  better-to-do 
citizen — a  housewife,  or  lawyer's  clerk,  or  iron- 

57 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

monger,  with  lips  pressed  rather  tightly  together 
and  an  air  of  taking  no  notice  of  this  disturb- 
ance of  traffic,  as  though  the  whole  thing  were  a 
rather  poor  joke  which  they  had  already  heard 
too  often. 

So,  with  laughter  and  a  continual  crack  of 
voices  our  jay-like  crew  swung  on,  swaying  and 
thumping  in  the  strange  ecstasy  of  irreflection, 
happy  to  be  moving  they  knew  not  where,  nor 
greatly  why,  under  the  visiting  sun,  to  the  sound 
of  murdered  music.  Whenever  the  band  stopped 
playing,  discipline  became  as  tatterdemalion  as 
the  very  flags  and  garments;  but  never  once  did 
they  lose  that  look  of  essential  order,  as  if  indeed 
they  knew  that,  being  the  worst-served  creatures 
in  the  Christian  world,  they  were  the  chief  guard- 
ians of  the  inherent  dignity  of  man. 

Hatless,  in  the  very  front  row,  marched  a  tall 
slip  of  a  girl,  arrow-straight,  and  so  thin,  with 
dirty  fair  hair,  in  a  blouse  and  skirt  gaping  behind, 
ever  turning  her  pretty  face  on  its  pretty  slim 
neck  from  side  to  side,  so  that  one  could  see  her 
blue  eyes  sweeping  here,  there,  everywhere,  with 
a  sort  of  flower-like  wildness,  as  if  a  secret  em- 
bracing of  each  moment  forbade  her  to  let  them 
rest  on  anything  and  break  this  pleasure  of  just 
marching.  It  seemed  that  in  the  never-still  eyes 

58 


THE  PROCESSION 

of  that  anaemic,  happy  girl  the  spirit  of  our  march 
had  elected  to  enshrine  itself  and  to  make  thence 
its  little  excursions  to  each  ecstatic  follower.  Just 
behind  her  marched  a  little  old  woman — &  maker 
of  chains,  they  said,  for  forty  years — whose  black 
slits  of  eyes  were  sparkling,  who  fluttered  a  bit  of 
ribbon,  and  reeled  with  her  sense  of  the  exquisite 
humour  of  the  world.  Every  now  and  then  she 
would  make  a  rush  at  one  of  her  leaders  to  demon- 
strate how  immoderately  glorious  was  life.  And 
each  time  she  spoke  the  woman  next  to  her,  laden 
with  a  heavy  baby,  went  off  into  squeals  of  laugh- 
ter. Behind  her,  again,  marched  one  who  beat 
time  with  her  head  and  waved  a  little  bit  of  stick, 
intoxicated  by  this  noble  music. 

For  an  hour  the  pageant  wound  through  the 
dejected  street,  pursuing  neither  method  nor  set 
route,  till  it  came  to  a  deserted  slag-heap,  selected 
for  the  speech-making.  Slowly  the  motley  regi- 
ment swung  into  that  grim  amphitheatre  under 
the  pale  sunshine;  and,  as  I  watched,  a  strange 
fancy  visited  my  brain.  I  seemed  to  see  over 
every  ragged  head  of  those  marching  women  a 
little  yellow  flame,  a  thin,  flickering  gleam,  spir- 
ing upward  and  blown  back  by  the  wind.  A  trick 
of  the  sunlight,  maybe?  Or  was  it  that  the  life 
in  their  hearts,  the  inextinguishable  breath  of 

59 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

happiness,  had  for  a  moment  escaped  prison,  and 
was  fluttering  at  the  pleasure  of  the  breeze? 

Silent  now,  just  enjoying  the  sound  of  the  words 
thrown  down  to  them,  they  stood,  unimaginably 
patient,  with  that  happiness  of  they  knew  not 
what  gilding  the  air  above  them  between  the 
patchwork  ribands  of  their  poor  flags.  If  they 
could  not  tell  very  much  why  they  had  come,  nor 
believe  very  much  that  they  would  gain  anything 
by  coming;  if  their  demonstration  did  not  mean 
to  the  world  quite  all  that  oratory  would  have 
them  think;  if  they  themselves  were  but  the  poor- 
est, humblest,  least  learned  women  in  the  land — 
for  all  that,  it  seemed  to  me  that  in  those  tattered, 
wistful  figures,  so  still,  so  trustful,  I  was  looking 
on  such  beauty  as  I  had  never  beheld.  All  the 
elaborated  glory  of  things  made,  the  perfected 
dreams  of  aesthetes,  the  embroideries  of  romance, 
seemed  as  nothing  beside  this  sudden  vision  of 
the  wild  goodness  native  in  humble  hearts. 

1910. 


60 


A  CHRISTIAN 

ONE  day  that  summer,  I  came  away  from  a 
luncheon  in  company  of  an  old  College 
chum.  Always  exciting  to  meet  those  one  hasn't 
seen  for  years;  and  as  we  walked  across  the  Park 
together  I  kept  looking  at  him  askance.  He  had 
altered  a  good  deal.  Lean  he  always  was,  but 
now  very  lean,  and  so  upright  that  his  parson's 
coat  was  overhung  by  the  back  of  his  long  and 
narrow  head,  with  its  dark  grizzled  hair,  which 
thought  had  not  yet  loosened  on  his  forehead. 
His  clean-shorn  face,  so  thin  and  oblong,  was  re- 
markable only  for  the  eyes:  dark-browed  and 
lashed,  and  coloured  like  bright  steel,  they  had  a 
fixity  in  them,  a  sort  of  absence,  on  one  couldn't 
tell  what  business.  They  made  me  think  of  tor- 
ture. And  his  mouth  always  gently  smiling,  as  if 
its  pinched  curly  sweetness  had  been  commanded, 
was  the  mouth  of  a  man  crucified — yes,  crucified! 
Tramping  silently  over  the  parched  grass,  I  felt 
that  if  we  talked,  we  must  infallibly  disagree;  his 
straight-up,  narrow  forehead  so  suggested  a  nature 
divided  within  itself  into  compartments  of  iron. 

61 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

It  was  hot  that  day,  and  we  rested  presently 
beside  the  Serpentine.  On  its  bright  waters  were 
the  usual  young  men,  sculling  themselves  to  and 
fro  with  their  usual  sad  energy,  the  usual  prome- 
naders  loitering  and  watching  them,  the  usual  dog 
that  swam  when  it  did  not  bark,  and  barked  when 
it  did  not  swim;  and  my  friend  sat  smiling,  twist- 
ing between  his  thin  fingers  the  little  gold  cross 
on  his  silk  vest. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  we  did  begin  to  talk;  and 
not  of  those  matters  of  which  the  well-bred  nat- 
urally converse — the  habits  of  the  rarer  kinds  of 
ducks,  and  the  careers  of  our  College  friends, 
but  of  something  never  mentioned  in  polite  so- 
ciety. 

At  lunch  our  hostess  had  told  me  the  sad  story 
of  an  unhappy  marriage,  and  I  had  itched  spirit- 
ually to  find  out  what  my  friend,  who  seemed  so 
far  away  from  me,  felt  about  such  things.  And 
now  I  determined  to  find  out. 

"Tell  me,"  I  asked  him,  "which  do  you  con- 
sider most  important — the  letter  or  the  spirit  of 
Christ's  teachings?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  answered  gently,  "what 
a  question!  How  can  you  separate  them?" 

"Well,  is  it  not  the  essence  of  His  doctrine  that 
the  spirit  is  all  important,  and  the  forms  of  little 

62 


A  CHRISTIAN 

value?  Does  not  that  run  through  all  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount?" 

"Certainly." 

"If,  then,"  I  said,  "Christ's  teaching  is  con- 
cerned with  the  spirit,  do  you  consider  that  Chris- 
tians are  justified  in  holding  others  bound  by  for- 
mal rules  of  conduct,  without  reference  to  what 
is  passing  in  their  spirits?" 

"If  it  is  for  their  good." 

"What  enables  you  to  decide  what  is  for  their 
good?" 

"Surely,  we  are  told." 

"Not  to  judge,  that  ye  be  not  judged." 

"Oh!  but  we  do  not,  ourselves,  judge;  we  are 
but  impersonal  ministers  of  the  rules  of  God." 

"Ah !  Do  general  rules  of  conduct  take  account 
of  the  variations  of  the  individual  spirit?" 

He  looked  at  me  hard,  as  if  he  began  to  scent 
heresy. 

"You  had  better  explain  yourself  more  fully," 
he  said.  "I  really  don't  follow." 

"Well,  let  us  take  a  concrete  instance.  We 
know  Christ's  saying  of  the  married  that  they  are 
one  flesh!  But  we  know  also  that  there  are  wives 
who  continue  to  live  the  married  life  with  dread- 
ful feelings  of  spiritual  revolt — wives  who  have 
found  out  that,  hi  spite  of  all  their  efforts,  they 

63 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

have  no  spiritual  affinity  with  their  husbands. 
Is  that  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  Christ's 
teaching,  or  is  it  not?" 

"We  are  told — "  he  began. 

"I  have  admitted  the  definite  commandment: 
'They  twain  shall  be  one  flesh/  There  could  not 
be,  seemingly,  any  more  rigid  law  laid  down;  how 
do  you  reconcile  it  with  the  essence  of  Christ's 
teaching?  Frankly,  I  want  to  know:  Is  there  or 
is  there  not  a  spiritual  coherence  in  Christianity, 
or  is  it  only  a  gathering  of  laws  and  precepts,  with 
no  inherent  connected  spiritual  philosophy?" 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  in  his  long-suffering  voice, 
"we  don't  look  at  things  like  that — for  us  there  is 
no  questioning." 

"But  how  do  you  reconcile  such  marriages  as 
I  speak  of,  with  the  spirit  of  Christ's  teaching? 
I  think  you  ought  to  answer  me." 

"Oh!  I  can,  perfectly,"  he  answered;  "the 
reconciliation  is  through  suffering.  What  a  poor 
woman  in  such  a  case  must  suffer  makes  for  the 
salvation  of  her  spirit.  That  is  the  spiritual  ful- 
filment, and  in  such  a  case  the  justification  of  the 
law." 

"So  then,"  I  said,  "sacrifice  or  suffering  is  the 
coherent  thread  of  Christian  philosophy?" 

"Suffering  cheerfully  borne,"  he  answered. 
64 


A  CHRISTIAN 

"You  do  not  think,"  I  said,  "that  there  is  a 
touch  of  extravagance  in  that?  Would  you  say, 
for  example,  that  an  unhappy  marriage  is  a  more 
Christian  thing  than  a  happy  one,  where  there  is 
no  suffering,  but  only  love?" 

A  line  came  between  his  brows.  "Well!"  he 
said  at  last,  "I  would  say,  I  think,  that  a  woman 
who  crucifies  her  flesh  with  a  cheerful  spirit  in 
obedience  to  God's  law,  stands  higher  in  the  eyes 
of  God  than  one  who  undergoes  no  such  sacrifice 
in  her  married  life."  And  I  had  the  feeling  that 
his  stare  was  passing  through  me,  on  its  way  to 
an  unseen  goal. 

"You  would  desire,  then,  I  suppose,  suffering 
as  the  greatest  blessing  for  yourself?" 

"Humbly,"  he  said,  "I  would  try  to." 

"And  naturally,  for  others?" 

"God  forbid!" 

"But  surely  that  is  inconsistent." 

He  murmured:  "You  see,  /  have  suffered" 

We  were  silent.  At  last  I  said:  "Yes,  that 
makes  much  which  was  dark  quite  clear  to  me." 

"Oh?"  he  asked. 

I  answered  slowly:  "Not  many  men,  you  know, 
even  in  your  profession,  have  really  suffered. 
That  is  why  they  do  not  feel  the  difficulty  which 
you  feel  in  desiring  suffering  for  others." 

65 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

He  threw  up  his  head  exactly  as  if  I  had  hit 
him  on  the  jaw:  "It's  weakness  in  me,  I  know/' 
he  said. 

"I  should  have  rather  called  it  weakness  in 
them.  But  suppose  you  are  right,  and  that  it's 
weakness  not  to  be  able  to  desire  promiscuous 
suffering  for  others,  would  you  go  further  and  say 
that  it  is  Christian  for  those,  who  have  not  expe- 
rienced a  certain  kind  of  suffering,  to  force  that 
particular  kind  on  others?" 

He  sat  silent  for  a  full  minute,  trying  evidently 
to  reach  to  the  bottom  of  my  thought. 

"Surely  not,"  he  said  at  last,  "except  as  min- 
isters of  God's  laws." 

"You  do  not  then  think  that  it  is  Christian  for 
the  husband  of  such  a  woman  to  keep  her  in  that 
state  of  suffering — not  being,  of  course,  a  minister 
of  God?" 

He  began  stammering  at  that:  "I — I — "  he 
said.  "No;  that  is,  I  think  not — not  Christian. 
No,  certainly." 

"Then,  such  a  marriage,  if  persisted  in,  makes 
of  the  wife  indeed  a  Christian,  but  of  the  husband 
— the  reverse." 

"The  answer  to  that  is  clear,"  he  said  quietly: 
"The  husband  must  abstain." 

"Yes,  that  is,  perhaps,  coherently  Christian, 
66 


A  CHRISTIAN 

on  your  theory:  They  would  then  both  suffer. 
But  the  marriage,  of  course,  has  become  no  mar- 
riage. They  are  no  longer  one  flesh." 

He  looked  at  me,  almost  impatiently,  as  if  to 
say:  Do  not  compel  me  to  enforce  silence  on  you! 

"But,  suppose,"  I  went  on,  "and  this,  you 
know,  is  the  more  frequent  case,  the  man  refuses 
to  abstain.  Would  you  then  say  it  was  more 
Christian  to  allow  him  to  become  daily  less  Chris- 
tian through  his  unchristian  conduct,  than  to  re- 
lieve the  woman  of  her  suffering  at  the  expense 
of  the  spiritual  benefit  she  thence  derives?  Why, 
in  fact,  do  you  favour  one  case  more  than  the 
other?" 

"All  question  of  relief,"  he  replied,  "is  a  matter 
for  Caesar;  it  cannot  concern  me." 

There  had  come  into  his  face  a  rigidity — as  if 
I  might  hit  it  with  my  questions  till  my  tongue 
was  tired,  and  it  be  no  more  moved  than  the 
bench  on  which  we  were  sitting. 

"One  more  question,"  I  said,  "and  I  have  done. 
Since  the  Christian  teaching  is  concerned  with  the 
spirit  and  not  forms,  and  the  thread  in  it  which 
binds  all  together  and  makes  it  coherent,  is  that 
of  suffering " 

"Redemption  by  suffering,"  he  put  in. 

"If  you  will — in  one  word,  self-crucifixion — I 
67 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

must  ask  you,  and  don't  take  it  personally,  be- 
cause of  what  you  told  me  of  yourself:  In  life  gen- 
erally, one  does  not  accept  from  people  any  teach- 
ing that  is  not  the  result  of  first-hand  experience 
on  their  parts.  Do  you  believe  that  this  Chris- 
tian teaching  of  yours  is  valid  from  the  mouths 
of  those  who  have  not  themselves  suffered — who 
have  not  themselves,  as  it  were,  been  crucified?" 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  minute;  then  he  said, 
with  painful  slowness:  "Christ  laid  hands  on  his 
apostles  and  sent  them  forth;  and  they  in  turn, 
and  so  on,  to  our  day." 

"Do  you  say,  then,  that  this  guarantees  that 
they  have  themselves  suffered,  so  that  in  spirit 
they  are  identified  with  their  teaching?" 

He  answered  bravely:  "No — I  do  not — I  can- 
not say  that  in  fact  it  is  always  so." 

"Is  not  then  their  teaching  born  of  forms,  and 
not  of  the  spirit?" 

He  rose;  and  with  a  sort  of  deep  sorrow  at  my 
stubbornness  said:  "We  are  not  permitted  to 
know  the  way  of  this;  it  is  so  ordained;  we  must 
have  faith." 

As  he  stood  there,  turned  from  me,  with  his  hat 
off,  and  his  neck  painfully  flushed  under  the  sharp 
outcurve  of  his  dark  head,  a  feeling  of  pity  surged 
up  in  me,  as  if  I  had  taken  an  unfair  advantage. 

68 


A  CHRISTIAN 

"Reason— coherence— philosophy,"  he  said  sud- 
denly. "You  don't  understand.  All  that  is  noth- 
ing to  me — nothing — nothing!" 

1911. 


WIND  IN  THE  ROCKS 


dew-dark  when  we  set  forth,  there 
was  stealing  into  the  frozen  air  an  invisible 
white  host  of  the  wan-winged  light  —  born  beyond 
the  mountains,  and  already,  like  a  drift  of  doves, 
harbouring  grey-white  high  up  on  the  snowy  sky- 
caves  of  Monte  Cristallo;  and  within  us,  tramping 
over  the  valley  meadows,  was  the  incredible  ela- 
tion of  those  who  set  out  before  the  sun  has  risen; 
every  minute  of  the  precious  day  before  us  —  we 
had  not  lost  one! 

At  the  mouth  of  that  enchanted  chine,  across 
which  for  a  million  years  the  howdahed  rock  ele- 
phant has  marched,  but  never  yet  passed  from 
sight,  we  crossed  the  stream,  and  among  the  trees 
began  our  ascent.  Very  far  away  the  first  cow- 
bells chimed;  and,  over  the  dark  heights,  we  saw 
the  thin,  sinking  moon,  looking  like  the  white 
horns  of  some  devotional  beast  watching  and  wait- 
ing up  there  for  the  god  of  light.  That  god  came 
slowly,  stalking  across  far  over  our  heads  from 
top  to  top;  then,  of  a  sudden,  his  flame-white  form 
was  seen  standing  in  a  gap  of  the  valley  walls;  the 

70 


WIND  IN  THE  ROCKS 

trees  flung  themselves  along  the  ground  before 
him,  and  censers  of  pine  gum  began  swinging  in 
the  dark  aisles,  releasing  their  perfumed  steam. 
Throughout  these  happy  ravines  where  no  man 
lives,  he  shows  himself  naked  and  unashamed,  the 
colour  of  pale  honey;  on  his  golden  hair  such  shin- 
ing as  one  has  not  elsewhere  seen;  his  eyes  like  old 
wine  on  fire.  And  already  he  had  swept  his  hand 
across  the  invisible  strings,  for  there  had  arisen 
the  music  of  uncurling  leaves  and  flitting  things. 

A  legend  runs,  that,  driven  from  land  to  land 
by  Christians,  Apollo  hid  himself  in  Lower  Aus- 
tria, but  those  who  aver  they  saw  him  there  in  the 
thirteenth  century  were  wrong;  it  was  to  these 
enchanted  chines,  frequented  only  by  the  moun- 
tain shepherds,  that  he  certainly  came. 

And  as  we  were  lying  on  the  grass  of  the  first 
alp,  with  the  star  gentians — those  fallen  drops  of 
the  sky — and  the  burnt-brown  dandelions,  and 
scattered  shrubs  of  alpen-rose  round  us,  we  were 
visited  by  one  of  these  very  shepherds,  passing 
with  his  flock — the  fiercest-looking  man  who  ever 
spoke  in  a  gentle  voice;  six  feet  high,  with  an 
orange  cloak,  bare  knees,  burnt  as  the  very  dan- 
delions, a  beard  blacker  than  black,  and  eyes  more 
glorious  than  if  sun  and  night  had  dived  and  were 
lying  imprisoned  in  their  depths.  He  spoke  in 

71 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

an  unknown  tongue,  and  could  certainly  not  under- 
stand any  word  of  ours;  but  he  smelled  of  the  good 
earth,  and  only  through  interminable  watches 
under  sun  and  stars  could  so  great  a  gentleman 
have  been  perfected. 

Presently,  while  we  rested  outside  that  Alpine 
hut  which  faces  the  three  sphinx-like  mountains, 
there  came  back,  from  climbing  the  smallest  and 
most  dangerous  of  those  peaks,  one,  pale  from 
heat,  and  trembling  with  fatigue;  a  tall  man,  with 
long  brown  hands,  and  a  long,  thin,  bearded  face. 
And,  as  he  sipped  cautiously  of  red  wine  and  water, 
he  looked  at  his  little  conquered  mountain.  His 
kindly,  screwed-up  eyes/  his  kindly,  bearded  lips, 
even  his  limbs  seemed  smiling;  and  not  for  the 
world  would  we  have  jarred  with  words  that  rapt, 
smiling  man,  enjoying  the  sacred  hour  of  him  who 
has  just  proved  himself.  In  silence  we  watched, 
in  silence  left  him  smiling,  knowing  somehow  that 
we  should  remember  him  all  our  days.  For  there 
was  in  his  smile  the  glamour  of  adventure  just  for 
the  sake  of  danger;  all  that  high  instinct  which 
takes  a  man  out  of  his  chair  to  brave  what  he 
need  not. 

Between  that  hut  and  the  three  mountains  lies 
a  saddle — astride  of  all  beauty  and  all  colour, 
master  of  a  titanic  chaos  of  deep  clefts,  tawny 

72 


WIND  IN  THE  ROCKS 

heights,  red  domes,  far  snow,  and  the  purple  of 
long  shadows;  and,  standing  there,  we  compre- 
hended a  little  of  what  Earth  had  been  through 
in  her  time,  to  have  made  this  playground  for 
most  glorious  demons.  Mother  Earth!  What 
travail  undergone,  what  long  heroic  throes,  had 
brought  on  her  face  such  majesty! 

Hereabout  edelweiss  was  clinging  to  the 
smoothed-out  rubble;  but  a  little  higher,  even 
the  everlasting  plant  was  lost,  there  was  no  more 
life.  And  presently  we  lay  down  on  the  moun- 
tain side,  rather  far  apart.  Up  here  above  trees 
and  pasture  the  wind  had  a  strange,  bare  voice, 
free  from  all  outer  influence,  sweeping  along  with 
a  cold,  whiffling  sound.  On  the  warm  stones,  in 
full  sunlight,  uplifted  over  all  the  beauty  of  Italy, 
one  felt  at  first  only  delight  in  space  and  wild  love- 
liness, in  the  unknown  valleys,  and  the  strength 
of  the  sun.  It  was  so  good  to  be  alive;  so  ineffably 
good  to  be  living  in  this  most  wonderful  world, 
drinking  air  nectar. 

Behind  us,  from  the  three  mountains,  came  the 
frequent  thud  and  scuffle  of  falling  rocks,  loosened 
by  rains.  The  wind,  mist,  and  winter  snow  had 
ground  the  powdery  stones  on  which  we  lay  to  a 
pleasant  bed,  but  once  on  a  time  they,  too,  had 
clung  up  there.  And  very  slowly,  one  could  not 

73 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

say  how  or  when,  the  sense  of  joy  began  changing 
to  a  sense  of  fear.  The  awful  impersonality  of 
those  great  rock-creatures,  the  terrible  impar- 
tiality of  that  cold,  clinging  wind  which  swept 
by,  never  an  inch  lifted  above  ground!  Not  one 
tiny  soul,  the  size  of  a  midge  or  rock  flower, 
lived  here.  Not  one  little  "I"  breathed  here, 
and  loved! 

And  we,  too,  some  day  would  no  longer  love, 
having  become  part  of  this  monstrous,  lovely 
earth,  of  that  cold,  whiffling  air.  To  be  no  longer 
able  to  love!  It  seemed  incredible,  too  grim  to 
bear;  yet  it  was  true!  To  become  powder,  and 
the  wind;  no  more  to  feel  the  sunlight;  to  be  loved 
no  more!  To  become  a  whiffling  noise,  cold,  with- 
out one's  self!  To  drift  on  the  breath  of  that 
noise,  homeless!  Up  here,  there  were  not  even 
those  little  velvet,  grey- white  flower-comrades  we 
had  plucked.  No  life!  Nothing  but  the  creeping 
wind,  and  those  great  rocky  heights,  whence  came 
the  sound  of  falling — symbols  of  that  cold,  un- 
timely state  into  which  we,  too,  must  pass.  Never 
more  to  love,  nor  to  be  loved!  One  could  but 
turn  to  the  earth,  and  press  one's  face  to  it,  away 
from  the  wild  loveliness.  Of  what  use  loveliness 
that  must  be  lost;  of  what  use  loveliness  when  one 
could  not  love?  The  earth  was  warm  and  firm 

74 


WIND  IN  THE  ROCKS 

beneath  the  palms  of  the  hands;  but  there  still 
came  the  sound  of  the  impartial  wind,  and  the 
careless  roar  of  the  stones  falling. 

Below,  in  those  valleys  amongst  the  living  trees 
and  grass,  was  the  comradeship  of  unnumbered 
life,  so  that  to  pass  out  into  Peace,  to  step  beyond, 
to  die,  seemed  but  a  brotherly  act,  amongst  all 
those  others;  but  up  here,  where  no  creature 
breathed,  we  saw  the  heart  of  the  desert  that 
stretches  before  each  little  human  soul.  Up  here, 
it  froze  the  spirit;  even  Peace  seemed  mocking — 
hard  as  a  stone.  Yet,  to  try  and  hide,  to  tuck  one's 
head  under  one's  own  wing,  was  not  possible  in 
this  air  so  crystal  clear,  so  far  above  incense  and 
the  narcotics  of  set  creeds,  and  the  fevered  breath 
of  prayers  and  protestations.  Even  to  know  that 
between  organic  and  inorganic  matter  there  is  no 
gulf  fixed,  was  of  no  peculiar  comfort.  The  jealous 
wind  came  creeping  over  the  lifeless  limestone, 
removing  even  the  poor  solace  of  its  warmth;  one 
turned  from  it,  desperate,  to  look  up  at  the  sky, 
the  blue,  burning,  wide,  ineffable,  far  sky. 

Then  slowly,  without  reason,  that  icy  fear 
passed  into  a  feeling,  not  of  joy,  not  of  peace,  but 
as  if  Life  and  Death  were  exalted  into  what  was 
neither  life  nor  death,  a  strange  and  motionless 
vibration,  in  which  one  had  been  merged,  and 

75 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

rested,  utterly  content,  equipoised,  divested  of  de- 
sire, endowed  with  life  and  death. 

But  since  this  moment  had  come  before  its  time, 
we  got  up,  and,  close  together,  marched  on  rather 
silently,  in  the  hot  sun. 

1910. 


76 


MY  DISTANT  RELATIVE 


rr^HOUGH  I  had  not  seen  my  distant  relative 
A  for  years  —  not,  in  fact,  since  he  was  obliged 
to  give  Vancouver  Island  up  as  a  bad  job  —  I  knew 
him  at  once,  when,  with  head  a  little  on  one  side, 
and  tea-cup  held  high,  as  if  to  confer  a  blessing, 
he  said:  "Hallo!"  across  the  Club  smoking-room. 

Thin  as  a  lath  —  not  one  ounce  heavier  —  tall, 
and  very  upright,  with  his  pale  forehead,  and  pale 
eyes,  and  pale  beard,  he  had  the  air  of  a  ghost  of 
a  man.  He  had  always  had  that  air.  And  his 
voice  —  that  matter-of-fact  and  slightly  nasal 
voice,  with  its  thin,  pragmatical  tone  —  was  like  a 
wraith  of  optimism,  issuing  between  pale  lips.  I 
noticed,  too,  that  his  town  habiliments  still  had 
their  unspeakable  pale  neatness,  as  if,  poor  things, 
they  were  trying  to  stare  the  daylight  out  of 
countenance. 

He  brought  his  tea  across  to  my  bay  window, 
with  that  wistful  sociability  of  his,  as  of  a  man 
who  cannot  always  find  a  listener. 

"  But  what  are  you  doing  in  town?  "  I  said.  "  I 
thought  you  were  in  Yorkshire  with  your  aunt." 

Over  his  round,  light  eyes,  fixed  on  something 
77 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

in  the  street,  the  lids  fell  quickly  twice,  as  the 
film  falls  over  the  eyes  of  a  parrot. 

"I'm  after  a  job/'  he  answered.  "Must  be  on 
the  spot  just  now." 

And  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  heard  those 
words  from  him  before. 

"Ah,  yes,"  I  said,  "and  do  you  think  you'll 
get  it?" 

But  even  as  I  spoke  I  felt  sorry,  remembering 
how  many  jobs  he  had  been  after  in  his  time,  and 
how  soon  they  ended  when  he  had  got  them.  He 
answered : 

"Oh,  yes!  They  ought  to  give  it  me,"  then 
added  rather  suddenly:  "You  never  know,  though. 
People  are  so  funny!" 

And  crossing  his  thin  legs,  he  went  on  to  tell 
me,  with  quaint  impersonality,  a  number  of  in- 
stances of  how  people  had  been  funny  in  connec- 
tion with  jobs  he  had  not  been  given. 

"You  see,"  he  ended,  "the  country's  in  such  a 
state — capital  going  out  of  it  every  day.  Enter- 
prise being  killed  all  over  the  place.  There's  prac- 
tically nothing  to  be  had!" 

"All!"  I  said,  "you  think  it's  worse,  then,  than 
it  used  to  be?" 

He  smiled;  in  that  smile  there  was  a  shade  of 
patronage. 

78 


MY  DISTANT  RELATIVE 

"We're  going  down-hill  as  fast  as  ever  we  can. 
National  character's  losing  all  its  backbone.  No 
wonder,  with  all  this  molly-coddling  going  on!" 

"Oh!"  I  murmured,  "molly-coddling?  Isn't 
that  excessive?" 

"Well!  Look  at  the  way  everything's  being 
done  for  them!  The  working  classes  are  losing 
their  self-respect  as  fast  as  ever  they  can.  Their 
independence  is  gone  already!" 

"You  think?" 

"Sure  of  it!  I'll  give  you  an  instance — "  and 
he  went  on  to  describe  to  me  the  degeneracy  of 
certain  working  men  employed  by  his  aunt  and  his 
eldest  brother  Claud  and  his  youngest  brother  Alan. 

"They  don't  do  a  stroke  more  than  they're 
obliged,"  he  ended;  "they  know  jolly  well  they've 
got  their  Unions,  and  their  pensions,  and  this 
Insurance,  to  fall  back  on." 

It  was  evidently  a  subject  on  which  he  felt 
strongly. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  "the  nation  is  being 
rotted  down." 

And  a  faint  thrill  of  surprise  passed  through 
me.  For  the  affairs  of  the  nation  moved  him  so 
much  more  strongly  than  his  own.  His  voice 
already  had  a  different  ring,  his  eyes  a  different 
look.  He  eagerly  leaned  forward,  and  his  long, 

79 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

straight  backbone  looked  longer  and  straighter 
than  ever.  He  was  less  the  ghost  of  a  man.  A 
faint  flush  even  had  come  into  his  pale  cheeks, 
and  he  moved  his  well-kept  hands  emphatically. 

"Oh,  yes!"  he  said:  "The  country  is  going  to 
the  dogs,  right  enough;  but  you  can't  get  them  to 
see  it.  They  go  on  sapping  and  sapping  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  people.  If  the  working  man's 
to  be  looked  after,  whatever  he  does — what  on 
earth's  to  become  of  his  go,  and  foresight,  and 
perseverance?" 

In  his  rising  voice  a  certain  piquancy  was  left 
to  its  accent  of  the  ruling  class  by  that  faint 
twang,  which  came,  I  remembered,  from  some 
slight  defect  in  his  tonsils. 

"Mark  my  words!  So  long  as  we're  on  these 
lines,  we  shall  do  nothing.  It's  going  against 
evolution.  They  say  Darwin's  getting  old-fash- 
ioned; all  I  know  is,  he's  good  enough  for  me. 
Competition  is  the  only  thing." 

"But  competition,"  I  said,  "is  bitter  cruel,  and 
some  people  can't  stand  against  it!"  And  I 
looked  at  him  rather  hard:  "Do  you  object  to 
putting  any  sort  of  floor  under  the  feet  of  people 
like  that?" 

He  let  his  voice  drop  a  little,  as  if  in  deference 
to  my  scruples. 

80 


MY  DISTANT  RELATIVE 

"Ah!"  he  said;  "but  if  you  once  begin  this  sort 
of  thing,  there's  no  end  to  it.  It's  so  insidious. 
The  more  they  have,  the  more  they  want;  and 
all  the  time  they're  losing  fighting  power.  I've 
thought  pretty  deeply  about  this.  It's  short- 
sighted; it  really  doesn't  do!" 

"But,"  I  said,  "surely  you're  not  against  sav- 
ing people  from  being  knocked  out  of  time  by  old 
age,  and  accidents  like  illness,  and  the  fluctua- 
tions of  trade?" 

"Oh!"  he  said,  "I'm  not  a  bit  against  charity. 
Aunt  Emma's  splendid  about  that.  And  Claud's 
awfully  good.  I  do  what  I  can,  myself."  He 
looked  at  me,  so  queerly  deprecating,  that  I  quite 
liked  him  at  that  moment.  At  heart — I  felt — 
he  was  a  good  fellow.  "All  I  think  is,"  he  went 
on,  "that  to  give  them  something  that  they  can 
rely  on  as  a  matter  of  course,  apart  from  their 
own  exertions,  is  the  wrong  principle  altogether," 
and  suddenly  his  voice  began  to  rise  again,  and  his 
eyes  to  stare.  "I'm  convinced  that  all  this  doing 
things  for  other  people,  and  bolstering  up  the  weak, 
is  rotten.  It  stands  to  reason  that  it  must  be." 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  so  preoccupied  with 
the  wrongness  of  that  principle  that  he  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  my  presence.  And  as  he  stood 
there  in  the  window  the  light  was  too  strong  for 

81 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

him.  All  the  thin  incapacity  of  that  shadowy 
figure  was  pitilessly  displayed;  the  desperate  nar- 
rowness in  that  long,  pale  face;  the  wambling  look 
of  those  pale,  well-kept  hands — all  that  made  him 
such  a  ghost  of  a  man.  But  his  nasal,  dogmatic 
voice  rose  and  rose. 

"There's  nothing  for  it  but  bracing  up!  We 
must  cut  away  all  this  State  support;  we  must 
teach  them  to  rely  on  themselves.  It's  all  sheer 
pauperisation." 

And  suddenly  there  shot  through  me  the  fear 
that  he  might  burst  one  of  those  little  blue  veins 
in  his  pale  forehead,  so  vehement  had  he  become; 
and  hastily  I  changed  the  subject. 

"Do  you  like  living  up  there  with  your  aunt?" 
I  asked:  "Isn't  it  a  bit  quiet?" 

He  turned,  as  if  I  had  awakened  him  from  a 
dream. 

"Oh,  well!"  he  said,  "it's  only  till  I  get  this 
job." 

"Let  me  see — how  long  is  it  since  you ?" 

"Four  years.  She's  very  glad  to  have  me,  of 
course." 

"And  how's  your  brother  Claud?" 

"Oh!  All  right,  thanks;  a  bit  worried  with  the 
estate.  The  poor  old  gov'nor  left  it  in  rather  a 
mess,  you  know." 

82 


MY  DISTANT  RELATIVE 

"Ah!    Yes.    Does  he  do  other  work?" 

"Oh!    Always  busy  in  the  parish." 

"And  your  brother  Richard?" 

"He's  all  right.  Came  home  this  year.  Got 
just  enough  to  live  on,  with  his  pension — hasn't 
saved  a  rap,  of  course." 

"And  Willie?    Is  he  still  delicate?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Easy  job,  his,  you  know.  And  even  if  his 
health  does  give  out,  his  college  pals  will  always 
find  him  some  sort  of  sinecure.  So  jolly  popular, 
old  Willie!" 

"And  Alan?  I  haven't  heard  anything  of  him 
since  his  Peruvian  thing  came  to  grief.  He  mar- 
ried, didn't  he?" 

"Rather!  One  of  the  Burleys.  Nice  girl — 
heiress;  lot  of  property  in  Hampshire.  He  looks 
after  it  for  her  now." 

"Doesn't  do  anything  else,  I  suppose?" 

"Keeps  up  his  antiquarianism." 

I  had  exhausted  the  members  of  his  family. 

Then,  as  though  by  eliciting  the  good  fortunes 
of  his  brothers  I  had  cast  some  slur  upon  himself, 
he  said  suddenly:  "If  the  railway  had  come,  as  it 
ought  to  have,  while  I  was  out  there,  I  should 
have  done  quite  well  with  my  fruit  farm." 

83 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

"Of  course,"  I  agreed;  "it  was  bad  luck.  But 
after  all,  you're  sure  to  get  a  job  soon,  and — so 
long  as  you  can  live  up  there  with  your  aunt — you 
can  afford  to  wait,  and  not  bother." 

"Yes,"  he  murmured.    And  I  got  up. 

"Well,  it's  been  very  jolly  to  hear  about  you 
all!" 

He  followed  me  out. 

"Awfully  glad,  old  man,"  he  said,  "to  have 
seen  you,  and  had  this  talk.  I  was  feeling  rather 
low.  Waiting  to  know  whether  I  get  that  ^ob 
— it's  not  lively." 

He  came  down  the  Club  steps  with  me.  By  the 
door  of  my  cab  a  loafer  was  standing;  a  tall  tatter- 
demalion with  a  pale,  bearded  face.  My  distant 
relative  fended  him  away,  and  leaning  through 
the  window,  murmured:  "Awful  lot  of  these  chaps 
about  now!" 

For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  help  looking  at 
him  very  straight.  But  no  flicker  of  apprehen- 
sion crossed  his  face. 

"Well,  good-by  again!"  he  said:  "You've 
cheered  me  up  a  lot!" 

I  glanced  back  from  my  moving  cab.  Some 
monetary  transaction  was  passing  between  him 
and  the  loafer,  but,  short-sighted  as  I  am,  I  found 
it  difficult  to  decide  which  of  those  tall,  pale, 

84 


MY  DISTANT  RELATIVE 

bearded  figures  was  giving  the  other  one  a  penny. 
And  by  some  strange  freak  an  awful  vision  shot 
up  before  me — of  myself,  and  my  distant  relative, 
and  Claud,  and  Richard,  and  Willie,  and  Alan, 
all  suddenly  relying  on  ourselves.  I  took  out  my 
handkerchief  to  mop  my  brow;  but  a  thought 
struck  me,  and  I  put  it  back.  Was  it  possible  for 
me,  and  my  distant  relatives,  and  their  distant 
relatives,  and  so  on  to  infinity  of  those  who  be- 
longed to  a  class  provided  by  birth  with  a  certain 
position,  raised  by  Providence  on  to  a  platform 
made  up  of  money  inherited,  of  interest,  of  educa- 
tion fitting  us  for  certain  privileged  pursuits,  of 
friends  similarly  endowed,  of  substantial  homes, 
and  substantial  relatives  of  some  sort  or  other, 
on  whom  we  could  fall  back — was  it  possible  for 
any  of  us  ever  to  be  in  the  position  of  having  to 
rely  absolutely  on  ourselves?  For  several  min- 
utes I  pondered  that  question;  and  slowly  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  that,  short  of  crime,  or  that  un- 
likely event,  marooning,  it  was  not  possible. 
Never,  never — try  as  we  might — could  any  single 
one  of  us  be  quite  in  the  position  of  one  of  those 
whose  approaching  pauperisation  my  distant  rela- 
tive had  so  vehemently  deplored.  We  were  al- 
ready pauperised.  If  we  served  our  country,  we 
were  pensioned.  If  we  inherited  land,  it  could  not 

85 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

be  taken  from  us.  If  we  went  into  the  Church, 
we  were  there  for  life,  whether  we  were  suitable 
or  no.  If  we  attempted  the  more  hazardous  occu- 
pations of  the  law,  medicine,  the  arts,  or  business, 
there  were  always  those  homes,  those  relations, 
those  friends  of  ours  to  fall  back  on,  if  we  failed. 
No!  We  could  never  have  to  rely  entirely  on 
ourselves;  we  could  never  be  pauperised — more 
than  we  were  already!  And  a  light  burst  in  on 
me.  That  explained  why  my  distant  relative  felt 
so  keenly.  It  bit  him,  for  he  saw,  of  course,  how 
dreadful  it  would  be  for  these  poor  people  of  the 
working  classes  when  legislation  had  succeeded  in 
placing  them  in  the  humiliating  position  in  which 
we  already  were — the  dreadful  position  of  having 
something  to  depend  on  apart  from  our  own  exer- 
tions, some  sort  of  security  in  our  lives.  I  saw 
it  now.  It  was  his  secret  pride,  gnawing  at  him 
all  the  time,  that  made  him  so  rabid  on  the  point. 
He  was  longing,  doubtless,  day  and  night,  not  to 
have  had  a  father  who  had  land,  and  had  left  a 
sister  well  enough  off  to  keep  him  while  he  was 
waiting  for  his  job.  He  must  be  feeling  how  hor- 
ribly degrading  was  the  position  of  Claud — in- 
heriting that  land;  and  of  Richard,  who,  just  be- 
cause he  had  served  in  the  Indian  Civil  Service, 
had  got  to  live  on  a  pension  all  the  rest  of  his  days; 

86 


MY  DISTANT  RELATIVE 

and  of  Willie,  who  was  in  danger  at  any  moment, 
if  his  health — always  delicate — gave  out,  of  hav- 
ing a  sinecure  found  for  him  by  his  college  friends; 
and  of  Alan,  whose  educated  charm  had  enabled 
him  to  marry  an  heiress  and  live  by  managing  her 
estates.  All,  all  sapped  of  go  and  foresight  and 
perseverance  by  a  cruel  Providence!  That  was 
what  he  was  really  feeling,  and  concealing,  be- 
cause he  was  too  well-bred  to  show  his  secret 
grief.  And  I  felt  suddenly  quite  warm  toward 
him,  now  that  I  saw  how  he  was  suffering.  I 
understood  how  bound  he  felt  in  honour  to  com- 
bat with  all  his  force  this  attempt  to  place  others 
in  his  own  distressing  situation.  At  the  same 
time  I  was  honest  enough  to  confess  to  myself — 
sitting  there  in  the  cab — that  I  did  not  personally 
share  that  pride  of  his,  or  feel  that  I  was  being 
rotted  by  my  own  position;  I  even  felt  some  dim 
gratitude  that  if  my  powers  gave  out  at  any  time, 
and  I  had  not  saved  anything,  I  should  still  not 
be  left  destitute  to  face  the  prospect  of  a  bleak 
and  impoverished  old  age;  and  I  could  not  help  a 
weak  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  a  certain  rela- 
tive security  was  being  guaranteed  to  those  peo- 
ple of  the  working  classes  who  had  never  had  it 
before.  At  the  same  moment  I  quite  saw  that 
to  a  prouder  and  stronger  heart  it  must  indeed  be 

87 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

bitter  to  have  to  sit  still  under  your  own  security, 
and  even  more  bitter  to  have  to  watch  that  pau- 
perising security  coming  closer  and  closer  to  others 
— for  the  generous  soul  is  always  more  concerned 
for  others  than  for  himself.  No  doubt,  I  thought, 
if  truth  were  known,  my  distant  relative  is  con- 
sumed with  longing  to  change  places  with  that 
loafer  who  tried  to  open  the  door  of  my  cab — for 
surely  he  must  see,  as  I  do,  that  that  is  just  what 
he  himself — having  failed  to  stand  the  pressure  of 
competition  in  his  life — would  be  doing  if  it  were 
not  for  the  accident  of  his  birth,  which  has  so  lam- 
entably insured  him  against  coming  to  that. 

"Yes,"  I  thought,  "you  have  learnt  something 
to-day;  it  does  not  do,  you  see,  hastily  to  despise 
those  distant  relatives  of  yours,  who  talk  about 
pauperising  and  molly-coddling  the  lower  classes. 
No,  no!  One  must  look  deeper  than  that!  One 
must  have  generosity ! " 

And  with  that  I  stopped  the  cab  and  got  out, 
for  I  wanted  a  breath  of  air. 

1911. 


THE  BLACK  GODMOTHER 

SITTING  out  on  the  lawn  at  tea  with  our 
friend  and  his  retriever,  we  had  been  dis- 
cussing those  massacres  of  the  helpless  which  had 
of  late  occurred,  and  wondering  that  they  should 
have  been  committed  by  the  soldiery  of  so  civi- 
lised a  State,  when,  in  a  momentary  pause  of  our 
astonishment,  our  friend,  who  had  been  listening 
in  silence,  crumpling  the  drooping  soft  ear  of  his 
dog,  looked  up  and  said,  "The  cause  of  atrocities 
is  generally  the  violence  of  Fear.  Panic's  at  the 
back  of  most  crimes  and  follies." 

Knowing  that  his  philosophical  statements  were 
always  the  result  of  concrete  instance,  and  that 
he  would  not  tell  us  what  that  instance  was  if  we 
asked  him — such  being  his  nature — we  were  care- 
ful not  to  agree. 

He  gave  us  a  look  out  of  those  eyes  of  his,  so 
like  the  eyes  of  a  mild  eagle,  and  said  abruptly: 
"What  do  you  say  to  this,  then?  ...  I  was  out 
in  the  dog-days  last  year  with  this  fellow  of  mine, 
looking  for  Osmunda,  and  stayed  some  days  in  a 
village — never  mind  the  name.  Coming  back  one 

89 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

evening  from  my  tramp,  I  saw  some  boys  stoning 
a  mealy-coloured  dog.  I  went  up  and  told  the 
young  devils  to  stop  it.  They  only  looked  at 
me  in  the  injured  way  boys  do,  and  one  of  them 
called  out,  'It's  mad,  guv'norP  I  told  them  to 
clear  off,  and  they  took  to  their  heels.  The  dog 
followed  me.  It  was  a  young,  leggy,  mild-looking 
mongrel,  cross — I  should  say — between  a  brown 
retriever  and  an  Irish  terrier.  There  was  froth 
about  its  lips,  and  its  eyes  were  watery;  it  looked 
indeed  as  if  it  might  be  in  distemper.  I  was 
afraid  of  infection  for  this  fellow  of  mine,  and 
whenever  it  came  too  close  shooed  it  away,  till  at 
last  it  slunk  off  altogether.  Well,  about  nine 
o'clock,  when  I  was  settling  down  to  write  by  the 
open  window  of  my  sitting-room — still  daylight, 
and  very  quiet  and  warm — there  began  that  most 
maddening  sound,  the  barking  of  an  unhappy  dog. 
I  could  do  nothing  with  that  continual  'Yap — 
yap!'  going  on,  and  it  was  too  hot  to  shut  the  win- 
dow; so  I  went  out  to  see  if  I  could  stop  it.  The 
men  were  all  at  the  pub,  and  the  women  just  fin- 
ished with  their  gossip;  there  was  no  sound  at  all 
but  the  continual  barking  of  this  dog,  somewhere 
away  out  in  the  fields.  I  travelled  by  ear  across 
three  meadows,  till  I  came  on  a  hay-stack  by  a 
pool  of  water.  There  was  the  dog  sure  enough — 

90 


THE  BLACK  GODMOTHER 

the  same  mealy-coloured  mongrel,  tied  to  a  stake, 
yapping,  and  making  frantic  little  runs  on  a  bit 
of  rusty  chain;  whirling  round  and  round  the 
stake,  then  standing  quite  still,  and  shivering.  I 
went  up  and  spoke  to  it,  but  it  backed  into  the 
hay-stack,  and  there  it  stayed  shrinking  away  from 
me,  with  its  tongue  hanging  out.  It  had  been 
heavily  struck  by  something  on  the  head;  the 
cheek  was  cut,  one  eye  half-closed,  and  an  ear 
badly  swollen.  I  tried  to  get  hold  of  it,  but  the 
poor  thing  was  beside  itself  with  fear.  It  snapped 
and  flew  round  so  that  I  had  to  give  it  up,  and  sit 
down  with  this  fellow  here  beside  me,  to  try  and 
quiet  it — a  strange  dog,  you  know,  will  generally 
form  his  estimate  of  you  from  the  way  it  sees  you 
treat  another  dog.  I  had  to  sit  there  quite  half 
an  hour  before  it  would  let  me  go  up  to  it,  pull  the 
stake  out,  and  lead  it  away.  The  poor  beast, 
though  it  was  so  feeble  from  the  blows  it  had  re- 
ceived, was  still  half-frantic,  and  I  didn't  dare  to 
touch  it;  and  all  the  time  I  took  good  care  that 
this  fellow  here  didn't  come  too  near.  Then  came 
the  question  what  was  to  be  done.  There  was 
no  vet,  of  course,  and  I'd  no  place  to  put  it  except 
my  sitting-room,  which  didn't  belong  to  me.  But, 
looking  at  its  battered  head,  and  its  half-mad 
eyes,  I  thought:  'No  trusting  you  with  these 

91 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

bumpkins;  you'll  have  to  come  in  here  for  the 
night!7  Well,  I  got  it  in,  and  heaped  two  or 
three  of  those  hairy  little  red  rugs  landladies  are 
so  fond  of,  up  in  a  corner,  and  got  it  on  to  them, 
and  put  down  my  bread  and  milk.  But  it 
wouldn't  eat — its  sense  of  proportion  was  all  gone, 
fairly  destroyed  by  terror.  It  lay  there  moaning, 
and  every  now  and  then  it  raised  its  head  with  a 
'yap'  of  sheer  fright,  dreadful  to  hear,  and  bit 
the  air,  as  if  its  enemies  were  on  it  again;  and  this 
fellow  of  mine  lay  in  the  opposite  corner,  with 
his  head  on  his  paw,  watching  it.  I  sat  up  for  a 
long  time  with  that  poor  beast,  sick  enough,  and 
wondering  how  it  had  come  to  be  stoned  and 
kicked  and  battered  into  this  state;  and  next  day 
I  made  it  my  business  to  find  out."  Our  friend 
paused,  scanned  us  a  little  angrily,  and  then  went 
on:  "It  had  made  its  first  appearance,  it  seems, 
following  a  bicyclist.  There  are  men,  you  know 
— save  the  mark — who,  when  their  beasts  get  ill 
or  too  expensive,  jump  on  their  bicycles  and  take 
them  for  a  quick  run,  taking  care  never  to  look 
behind  them.  When  they  get  back  home  they 
say:  'Hallo!  where's  Fido?'  Fido  is  nowhere,  and 
there's  an  end!  Well,  this  poor  puppy  gave  up 
just  as  it  got  to  our  village;  and,  roaming  about 
in  search  of  water,  attached  itself  to  a  farm  la- 

92 


THE  BLACK  GODMOTHER 

bourer.  The  man — with  excellent  intentions,  as 
he  told  me  himself — tried  to  take  hold  of  it,  but 
too  abruptly,  so  that  it  was  startled,  and  snapped 
at  him.  Whereon  he  kicked  it  for  a  dangerous 
cur,  and  it  went  drifting  back  toward  the  village, 
and  fell  in  with  the  boys  coming  home  from  school. 
It  thought,  no  doubt,  that  they  were  going  to 
kick  it  too,  and  nipped  one  of  them  who  took  it 
by  the  collar.  Thereupon  they  hullabalooed  and 
stoned  it  down  the  road  to  where  I  found  them. 
Then  I  put  in  my  little  bit  of  torture,  and  drove 
it  away,  through  fear  of  infection  to  my  own  dog. 
After  that  it  seems  to  have  fallen  in  with  a  man 
who  told  me:  'Well,  you  see,  he  came  sneakin' 
round  my  house,  with  the  children  playin',  and 
snapped  at  them  when  they  went  to  stroke  him, 
so  that  they  came  running  in  to  their  mother,  an' 
she  called  to  me  in  a  fine  takin'  about  a  mad  dog. 
I  ran  out  with  a  shovel  and  gave  'im  one,  and 
drove  him  out.  I'm  sorry  if  he  wasn't  mad,  he 
looked  it  right  enough;  you  can't  be  too  careful 
with  strange  dogs.'  Its  next  acquaintance  was 
an  old  stone-breaker,  a  very  decent  sort.  'Well! 
you  see,'  the  old  man  explained  to  me,  'the  dog 
came  smellin'  round  my  stones,  an'  it  wouldn' 
come  near,  an'  it  wouldn'  go  away;  it  was  all  froth 
and  blood  about  the  jaw,  and  its  eyes  glared  green 
at  me.  I  thought  to  meself,  bein'  the  dog-days 

93 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

— I  don't  like  the  look  o'  you,  you  look  funny! 
So  I  took  a  stone,  an'  got  it  here,  just  on  the  ear; 
an'  it  fell  over.  And  I  thought  to  meself:  Well, 
you've  got  to  finish  it,  or  it'll  go  bitin'  somebody, 
for  sure!  But  when  I  come  to  it  with  my  ham- 
mer, the  dog  it  got  up — an'  you  know  how  it  is 
when  there's  somethin'  you've  'alf  killed,  and  you 
feel  sorry,  and  yet  you  feel  you  must  finish  it,  an' 
you  hit  at  it  blind,  you  hit  at  it  agen  an'  agen. 
The  poor  thing,  it  wriggled  and  snapped,  an'  I 
was  terrified  it'd  bite  me,  an'  some'ow  it  got 
away.":  Again  our  friend  paused,  and  this  time 
we  dared  not  look  at  him. 

"The  next  hospitality  it  was  shown,"  he  went 
on  presently,  "was  by  a  farmer,  who,  seeing  it  all 
bloody,  drove  it  off,  thinking  it  had  been  digging 
up  a  lamb  that  he'd  just  buried.  The  poor  home- 
less beast  came  sneaking  back,  so  he  told  his  men 
to  get  rid  of  it.  Well,  they  got  hold  of  it  somehow 
— there  was  a  hole  in  its  neck  that  looked  as  if 
they'd  used  a  pitchfork — and,  mortally  afraid  of 
its  biting  them,  but  not  liking,  as  they  told  me,  to 
drown  it,  for  fear  the  owner  irdght  come  on  them, 
they  got  a  stake  and  a  chain,  and  fastened  it  up, 
and  left  it  in  the  water  by  the  hay-stack  where  I 
found  it.  I  had  some  conversation  with  that 
farmer.  ' That's  right,'  he  said,  'but  who  was  to 
know?  I  couldn't  have  my  sheep  worried.  The 

94 


THE  BLACK  GODMOTHER 

brute  had  blood  on  his  muzzle.  These  curs  do 
a  lot  of  harm  when  they've  once  been  blooded. 
You  can't  run  risks."  Our  friend  cut  viciously 
at  a  dandelion  with  his  stick.  "Run  risks!"  he 
broke  out  suddenly:  "That  was  it — from  begin- 
ning to  end  of  that  poor  beast's  sufferings,  fear! 
From  that  fellow  on  the  bicycle,  afraid  of  the 
worry  and  expense,  as  soon  as  it  showed  signs  of 
distemper,  to  myself  and  the  man  with  the  pitch- 
fork— not  one  of  us,  I  daresay,  would  have  gone 
out  of  our  way  to  do  it  a  harm.  But  we  felt  fear, 
and  so — by  the  law  of  self-preservation,  or  what- 
ever you  like — it  all  began,  till  there  the  poor 
thing  was,  with  a  battered  head  and  a  hole  in  its 
neck,  ravenous  with  hunger,  and  too  distraught 
even  to  lap  my  bread  and  milk.  Yes,  and  there's 
something  uncanny  about  a  suffering  animal — we 
sat  watching  it,  and  again  we  were  afraid,  look- 
ing at  its  eyes  and  the  way  it  bit  the  air.  Fear! 
It's  the  black  godmother  of  all  damnable  things!" 
Our  friend  bent  down,  crumpling  and  crump- 
ling at  his  dog's  ears.  We,  too,  gazed  at  the 
ground,  thinking  of  that  poor  lost  puppy,  and  the 
horrible  inevitability  of  all  that  happens,  seeing 
men  are  what  they  are;  thinking  of  all  the  foul 
doings  in  the  world,  whose  black  godmother  is 
Fear. 

95 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

"And  what  became  of  the  poor  dog?"  one  of 
us  asked  at  last. 

"When,"  said  our  friend  slowly,  "I'd  had  my 
fill  of  watching,  I  covered  it  with  a  rug,  took  this 
fellow  away  with  me,  and  went  to  bed.  There 
was  nothing  else  to  do.  At  dawn  I  was  awakened 
by  three  dreadful  cries — not  like  a  dog's  at  all. 
I  hurried  down.  There  was  the  poor  beast — 
wriggled  out  from  under  the  rug — stretched  on 
its  side,  dead.  This  fellow  of  mine  had  followed 
me  in,  and  he  went  and  sat  down  by  the  body. 
When  I  spoke  to  him  he  just  looked  round,  and 
wagged  his  tail  along  the  ground,  but  would  not 
come  away;  and  there  he  sat  till  it  was  buried, 
very  interested,  but  not  sorry  at  all." 

Our  friend  was  silent,  looking  angrily  at  some- 
thing in  the  distance. 

And  we,  too,  were  silent,  seeing  in  spirit  that 
vigil  of  early  morning:  The  thin,  lifeless,  sandy- 
coloured  body,  stretched  on  those  red  mats;  and 
this  black  creature — now  lying  at  our  feet — 
propped  on  its  haunches  like  the  dog  in  "The 
Death  of  Procris,"  patient,  curious,  ungrieved, 
staring  down  at  it  with  his  bright,  interested  eyes. 

1912. 


96 


THE  GRAND  JURY— IN  TWO  PANELS 
AND  A  FRAME 

1READ  that  piece  of  paper,  which  summoned 
me  to  sit  on  the  Grand  Jury  at  the  approach- 
ing Sessions,  lying  in  a  scoop  of  the  shore  close  to 
the  great  rollers  of  the  sea — that  span  of  eternal 
freedom,  deprived  just  there  of  too  great  liberty 
by  the  word  "Atlantic."  And  I  remember  think- 
ing, as  I  read,  that  in  each  breaking  wave  was 
some  particle  which  had  visited  every  shore  in  all 
the  world — that  in  each  sparkle  of  hot  sunlight 
stealing  that  bright  water  up  into  the  sky,  was 
the  microcosm  of  all  change,  and  of  all  unity. 

PANEL  I 

In  answer  to  that  piece  of  paper,  I  presented 
myself  at  the  proper  place  in  due  course  and  with 
a  certain  trepidation.  What  was  it  that  I  was 
about  to  do?  For  I  had  no  experience  of  these 
things.  And,  being  too  early,  I  walked  a  little  to 
and  fro,  looking  at  all  those  my  partners  in  this 
matter  of  the  purification  of  Society.  Prosecutors, 
witnesses,  officials,  policemen,  detectives,  un- 

97 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

detected,  pressmen,  barristers,  loafers,  clerks, 
cadgers,  jurymen.  And  I  remember  having  some- 
thing of  the  feeling  that  one  has  when  one  looks 
into  a  sink  without  holding  one's  nose.  There 
was  such  uneasy  hurry,  so  strange  a  disenchanted 
look,  a  sort  of  spiritual  dirt,  about  all  that  place, 
and  there  were — faces!  And  I  thought:  To  them 
my  face  must  seem  as  their  faces  seem  to  me! 

Soon  I  was  taken  with  my  accomplices  to  have 
my  name  called,  and  to  be  sworn.  I  do  not  re- 
member much  about  that  process,  too  occupied 
with  wondering  what  these  companions  of  mine 
were  like;  but  presently  we  all  came  to  a  long 
room  with  a  long  table,  where  nineteen  lists  of 
indictments  and  nineteen  pieces  of  blotting  paper 
were  set  alongside  nineteen  pens.  We  did  not, 
I  recollect,  speak  much  to  one  another,  but  sat 
down,  and  studied  those  nineteen  lists.  We  had 
eighty-seven  cases  on  which  to  pronounce  whether 
the  bill  was  true  or  no;  and  the  clerk  assured  us 
we  should  get  through  them  in  two  days  at  most. 
Over  the  top  of  these  indictments  I  regarded  my 
eighteen  fellows.  There  was  in  me  a  hunger  of 
inquiry,  as  to  what  they  thought  about  this  busi- 
ness; and  a  sort  of  sorrowful  affection  for  them,  as 
if  we  were  all  a  ship's  company  bound  on  some 
strange  and  awkward  expedition.  I  wondered, 

98 


THE  GRAND  JURY 

till  I  thought  my  wonder  must  be  coining  through 
my  eyes,  whether  they  had  the  same  curious  sen- 
sation that  I  was  feeling,  of  doing  something 
illegitimate,  which  I  had  not  been  born  to  do,  to- 
gether with  a  sense  of  self-importance,  a  sort  of 
unholy  interest  in  thus  dealing  with  the  lives  of 
my  fellow  men.  And  slowly,  watching  them,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  need  not  wonder. 
All — with  the  exception  perhaps  of  two,  a  painter 
and  a  Jew — looked  such  good  citizens.  I  became 
gradually  sure  that  they  were  not  troubled  with 
the  lap  and  wash  of  speculation;  undogged  by  any 
devastating  sense  of  unity;  pure  of  doubt,  and 
undefiled  by  an  uneasy  conscience. 

But  now  they  began  to  bring  us  in  the  evidence. 
They  brought  it  quickly.  And  at  first  we  looked 
at  it,  whatever  it  was,  with  a  sort  of  solemn  ex- 
citement. Were  we  not  arbiters  of  men's  fates, 
purifiers  of  Society,  more  important  by  far  than 
Judge  or  Common  Jury?  For  if  we  did  not  bring 
in  a  true  bill  there  was  an  end;  the  accused  would 
be  discharged. 

We  set  to  work,  slowly  at  first,  then  faster  and 
still  faster,  bringing  in  true  bills;  and  after  every 
one  making  a  mark  in  our  lists  so  that  we  might 
know  where  we  were.  We  brought  in  true  bills 
for  burglary,  and  false  pretences,  larceny,  and 

99 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

fraud;  we  brought  them  in  for  manslaughter,  rape, 
and  arson.  When  we  had  ten  or  so,  two  of  us 
would  get  up  and  bear  them  away  down  to  the 
Court  below  and  lay  them  before  the  Judge. 
"Thank  you,  gentlemen!"  he  would  say,  or  words 
to  that  effect;  and  we  would  go  up  again,  and  go 
on  bringing  in  true  bills.  I  noticed  that  at  the 
evidence  of  each  fresh  bill  we  looked  with  a  little 
less  excitement,  and  a  little  less  solemnity,  mak- 
ing every  time  a  shorter  tick  and  a  shorter  note 
in  the  margin  of  our  lists.  All  the  bills  we  had 
— fifty-seven — we  brought  in  true.  And  the 
morning  and  the  afternoon  made  that  day,  till 
we  rested  and  went  to  our  homes. 

Next  day  we  were  all  back  in  our  places  at  the 
appointed  hour,  and,  not  greeting  each  other  much, 
at  once  began  to  bring  in  bills.  We  brought 
them  in,  not  quite  so  fast,  as  though  some  lurking 
megrim,  some  microbe  of  dissatisfaction  with  our- 
selves was  at  work  within  us.  It  was  as  if  we 
wanted  to  throw  one  out,  as  if  we  felt  our  work 
too  perfect.  And  presently  it  came.  A  case  of 
defrauding  one  Sophie  Liebermann,  or  Lauber- 
mann,  or  some  such  foreign  name,  by  giving  her 
one  of  those  five-pound  Christmas-card  bank- 
notes just  then  in  fashion,  and  receiving  from  her, 
as  she  alleged,  three  real  sovereigns  change.  There' 

100 


THE  GRAND  JURY 

was  a  certain  piquancy  about  the  matter,  and  I 
well  remember  noticing  how  we  sat  a  little  forward 
and  turned  in  our  seats  when  they  brought  in 
the  prosecutrix  to  give  evidence.  Pale,  self-pos- 
sessed, dressed  in  black,  and  rather  comely,  neither 
brazen  nor  furtive,  speaking  but  poor  English,  her 
broad,  matter-of-fact  face,  with  its  wide-set  grey 
eyes  and  thickish  nose  and  lips,  made  on  me,  I 
recollect,  an  impression  of  rather  stupid  honesty. 
I  do  not  think  they  had  told  us  in  so  many  words 
what  her  calling  was,  nor  do  I  remember  whether 
she  actually  disclosed  it,  but  by  our  demeanour 
I  could  tell  that  we  had  all  realized  what  was  the 
nature  of  the  service  rendered  to  the  accused,  in 
return  for  which  he  had  given  her  this  worthless 
note.  In  her  rather  guttural  but  pleasant  voice 
she  answered  all  our  questions — not  very  far  from 
tears,  I  think,  but  saved  by  native  stolidity,  and 
perhaps  a  little  by  the  fear  that  purifiers  of  So- 
ciety might  not  be  the  proper  audience  for  emo- 
tion. When  she  had  left  us  we  recalled  the  detec- 
tive, and  still,  as  it  were,  touching  the  delicate 
matter  with  the  tips  of  our  tongues,  so  as  not, 
being  men  of  the  world,  to  seem  biassed  against 
anything,  we  definitely  elicited  from  him  her  pro- 
fession and  these  words:  "If  she's  speaking  the 
truth,  gentlemen;  but,  as  you  know,  these  women, 

101 


-CONCERNING  LIFE 

they  don't  always,  specially  the  foreign  ones!" 
When  he,  too,  had  gone,  we  looked  at  each  other 
in  unwonted  silence.  None  of  us  quite  liked,  it 
seemed,  to  be  first  to  speak.  Then  our  foreman 
said:  "There's  no  doubt,  I  think,  that  he  gave 
her  the  note — mean  trick,  of  course,  but  we  can't 
have  him  on  that  alone — bit  too  irregular — no  con- 
sideration in  law,  I  take  it." 

He  smiled  a  little  at  our  smiles,  and  then  went 
on:  "The  question,  gentlemen,  really  seems  to 
be,  are  we  to  take  her  word  that  she  actually  gave 
him  change?"  Again,  for  quite  half  a  minute, 
we  were  silent,  and  then,  the  fattest  one  of  us  said, 
suddenly:  "Very  dangerous — goin'  on  the  word 
of  these  women." 

And  at  once,  as  if  he  had  released  something 
in  our  souls,  we  all  (save  two  or  three)  broke  out. 
It  wouldn't  do!  It  wasn't  safe!  Seeing  what 
these  women  were!  It  was  exactly  as  if,  without 
word  said,  we  had  each  been  swearing  the  other 
to  some  secret  compact  to  protect  Society.  As 
if  we  had  been  whispering  to  each  other  something 
like  this:  "These  women — of  course,  we  need 
them,  but  for  all  that  we  can't  possibly  recognise 
them  as  within  the  Law;  we  can't  do  that  without 
endangering  the  safety  of  every  one  of  us.  In 
this  matter  we  are  trustees  for  all  men — indeed, 

102 


THE  GRAND  JURY 

even  for  ourselves,  for  who  knows  at  what  moment 
we  might  not  ourselves  require  their  services,  and 
it  would  be  exceedingly  awkward  if  their  word 
were  considered  the  equal  of  our  own!"  Not  one 
of  us,  certainly  said  anything  so  crude  as  this;  none 
the  less  did  many  of  us  feel  it.  Then  the  foreman, 
looking  slowly  round  the  table,  said:  "Well,  gen- 
tlemen, I  think  we  are  all  agreed  to  throw  out 
this  bill";  and  all,  except  the  painter,  the  Jew,  and 
one  other,  murmured:  "Yes."  And,  as  though, 
in  throwing  out  this  bill  we  had  cast  some  trouble 
off  our  minds,  we  went  on  with  the  greater  speed, 
bringing  in  true  bills.  About  two  o'clock  we  fin- 
ished, and  trooped  down  to  the  Court  to  be 
released.  On  the  stairway  the  Jew  came  close, 
and,  having  examined  me  a  little  sharply  with  his 
velvety  slits  of  eyes,  as  if  to  see  that  he  was  not 
making  a  mistake,  said:  "Ith  fonny — we  bring  in 
eighty-thix  bills  true,  and  one  we  throw  out,  and 
the  one  we  throw  out  we  know  it  to  be  true,  and 
the  dirtieth  job  of  the  whole  lot.  Ith  fonny!" 
"Yes,"  I  answered  him,  "our  sense  of  respecta- 
bility does  seem  excessive."  But  just  then  we 
reached  the  Court,  where,  in  his  red  robe  and 
grey  wig,  with  his  clear-cut,  handsome  face,  the 
judge  seemed  to  shine  and  radiate,  like  sun  through 
gloom.  "I  thank  you,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  in  a 

103 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

voice  courteous  and  a  little  mocking,  as  though 
he  had  somewhere  seen  us  before:  "I  thank  you 
for  the  way  in  which  you  have  performed  your 
duties.  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  assigning  to 
you  anything  for  your  services  except  the  privilege 
of  going  over  a  prison,  where  you  will  be  able  to 
see  what  sort  of  existence  awaits  many  of  those  to 
whose  cases  you  have  devoted  so  much  of  your 
valuable  time.  You  are  released,  gentlemen." 

Looking  at  each  other  a  little  hurriedly,  and 
not  taking  too  much  farewell,  for  fear  of  having  to 
meet  again,  we  separated. 

I  was,  then,  free — free  of  the  injunction  of  that 
piece  of  paper  reposing  in  my  pocket.  Yet  its 
influence  was  still  upon  me.  I  did  not  hurry  away, 
but  lingered  in  the  courts,  fascinated  by  the  notion 
that  the  fate  of  each  prisoner  had  first  passed 
through  my  hands.  At  last  I  made  an  effort,  and 
went  out  into  the  corridor.  There^  I  passed  a 
woman  whose  figure  seemed  familiar.  She  was  sit- 
ting with  her  hands  in  her  lap  looking  straight 
before  her,  pale-faced  and  not  uncomely,  with 
thickish  mouth  and  nose — the  woman  whose  bill 
we  had  thrown  out.  Why  was  she  sitting  there? 
Had  she  not  then  realised  that  we  had  quashed  her 
claim;  or  was  she,  like  myself,  kept  here  by  mere 
attraction  of  the  Law?  Following  I  know  not 

104 


THE  GRAND  JURY 

what  impulse,  I  said:  "Your  case  was  dismissed, 
wasn't  it?"  She  looked  up  at  me  stolidly,  and  a 
tear,  which  had  evidently  been  long  gathering, 
dropped  at  the  movement.  "I  do  nod  know;  I 
waid  to  see,"  she  said  in  her  thick  voice;  "I  tink 
there  has  been  mistake."  My  face,  no  doubt,  be- 
trayed something  of  my  sentiments  about  her  case, 
for  the  thick  tears  began  rolling  fast  down  her 
pasty  cheeks,  and  her  pent-up  feeling  suddenly 
flowed  forth  in  words:  "I  work  'ard;  Gott!  how  I 
work  hard!  And  there  gomes  dis  liddle  beastly 
man,  and  rob  me.  And  they  say:  'Ah!  yes;  but 
you  are  a  bad  woman,  we  don'  trust  you — you 
speak  lie.'  But  I  speak  druth,  I  am  nod  a  bad 
woman — I  gome  from  Hamburg."  "Yes,  yes," 
I  murmured;  "yes,  yes."  "I  do  not  know  this 
country  well,  sir.  I  speak  bad  English.  Is  that 
why  they  do  not  drust  my  word?  "  She  was  silent 
for  a  moment,  searching  my  face,  then  broke  out 
again :  "  It  is  all  'ard  work  in  my  profession,  I  make 
very  liddle,  I  cannot  afford  to  be  rob.  Without 
the  men  I  cannod  make  my  living,  I  must  drust 
them — and  they  rob  me  like  this,  it  is  too  'ard." 
And  the  slow  tears  rolled  faster  and  faster  from  her 
eyes  on  to  her  hands  and  her  black  lap.  Then 
quietly,  and  looking  for  a  moment  singularly  like  a 
big,  unhappy  child,  she  asked:  "Will  you  blease 

105 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

dell  me,  sir,  why  they  will  not  give  me  the  law  of 
that  dirty  little  man?" 

I  knew — and  too  well;  but  I  could  not  tell  her. 

"You  see, "  I  said,  "it's  just  a  case  of  your  word 
against  his." 

"Oh!  no;  but,"  she  said  eagerly,  "he  give  me 
the  note — I  would  not  have  taken  it  if  I  'ad  not 
thought  it  good,  would  I?  That  is  sure,  isn't  it? 
But  five  pounds  it  is  not  my  price.  It  must  that 
I  give  'im  change!  Those  gentlemen  that  heard 
my  case,  they  are  men  of  business,  they  must  know 
that  it  is  not  my  price.  If  I  could  tell  the  judge 
— I  think  he  is  a  man  of  business  too — he  would 
know  that  too,  for  sure.  I  am  not  so  young.  I 
am  not  so  veree  beautiful  as  all  that;  he  must  see, 
mustn't  he,  sir?" 

At  my  wits'  end  how  to  answer  that  most  strange 
question,  I  stammered  out:  "But,  you  know,  your 
profession  is  outside  the  law. " 

At  that  a  slow  anger  dyed  her  face.  She  looked 
down;  then,  suddenly  lifting  one  of  her  dirty,  un- 
gloved hands,  she  laid  it  on  her  breast  with  the 
gesture  of  one  baring  to  me  the  truth  in  her  heart. 
"  I  am  not  a  bad  woman, "  she  said :  "  Dat  beastly 
little  man,  he  do  the  same  as  me — I  am  free-wom- 
an, I  am  not  a  slave  bound  to  do  the  same  to-mor- 
row night,  no  more  than  he.  Such  like  him  make 

106 


THE  GRAND  JURY 

me  what  I  am;  he  have  all  the  pleasure,  I  have  all 
the  work.  He  give  me  noding — he  rob  my  poor 
money,  and  he  make  me  seem  to  strangers  a  bad 
woman.  Oh,  dear !  I  am  not  happy ! " 

The  impulse  I  had  been  having  to  press  on  her 
the  money,  died  within  me;  I  felt  suddenly  it 
would  be  another  insult.  From  the  movement 
of  her  fingers  about  her  heart  I  could  not  but  see 
that  this  grief  of  hers  was  not  about  the  money. 
It  was  the  inarticulate  outburst  of  a  bitter  sense 
of  deep  injustice;  of  all  the  dumb  wondering  at 
her  own  fate  that  went  about  with  her  behind  that 
broad  stolid  face  and  bosom.  This  loss  of  the 
money  was  but  a  symbol  of  the  furtive,  hopeless 
insecurity  she  lived  with  day  and  night,  now 
forced  into  the  light,  for  herself  and  all  the  world 
to  see.  She  felt  it  suddenly  a  bitter,  unfair  thing. 
This  beastly  little  man  did  not  share  her  inse- 
curity. None  of  us  shared  it — none  of  us,  who  had 
brought  her  down  to  this.  And,  quite  unable  to 
explain  to  her  how  natural  and  proper  it  all  was, 
I  only  murmured:  "I  am  sorry,  awfully  sorry/' 
and  fled  away. 

PANEL  II 

It  was  just  a  week  later  when,  having  for  pass- 
port my  Grand  Jury  summons,  I  presented  myself 

107 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

at  that  prison  where  we  had  the  privilege  of  seeing 
the  existence  to  which  we  had  assisted  so  many  of 
the  eighty-six. 

"I'm  afraid, "  I  said  to  the  guardian  of  the  gate, 
"that  I  am  rather  late  in  availing  myself — the 
others,  no  doubt ?" 

"Not  at  all,  sir,"  he  said,  smiling.  "You're 
the  first,  and  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I  think  you'll 
be  the  last.  Will  you  wait  in  here  while  I  send 
for  the  chief  warder  to  take  you  over?" 

He  showed  me  then  to  what  he  called  the  Ward- 
er's Library — an  iron-barred  room,  more  bare  and 
brown  than  any  I  had  seen  since  I  left  school. 
While  I  stood  there  waiting  and  staring  out  into 
the  prison  court-yard,  there  came,  rolling  and 
rumbling  in,  a  Black  Maria.  It  drew  up  with  a 
clatter,  and  I  saw  through  the  barred  door  the 
single  prisoner — a  young  girl  of  perhaps  eighteen 
— dressed  in  rusty  black.  She  was  resting  her 
forehead  against  a  bar  and  looking  out,  her  quick, 
narrow  dark  eyes  taking  in  her  new  surroundings 
with  a  sort  of  sharp,  restless  indifference;  and  her 
pale,  thin-lipped,  oval  face  quite  expressionless. 
Behind  those  bars  she  seemed  to  me  for  all  the 
world  like  a  little  animal  of  the  cat  tribe  being 
brought  in  to  her  Zoo.  Me  she  did  not  see,  but 
if  she  had  I  felt  she  would  not  shrink — only  give 

108 


THE  GRAND  JURY 

me  the  same  sharp,  indifferent  look  she  was  giv- 
ing all  else.  The  policeman  on  the  step  behind 
had  disappeared  at  once,  and  the  driver  now  got 
down  from  his  perch  and,  coming  round,  began  to 
gossip  with  her.  I  saw  her  slink  her  eyes  and  smile 
at  him,  and  he  smiled  back;  a  large  man,  not  un- 
kindly. Then  he  returned  to  his  horses,  and  she 
stayed  as  before,  with  her  forehead  against  the 
bars,  just  staring  out.  Watching  her  like  that, 
unseen,  I  seemed  to  be  able  to  see  right  through 
that  tight-lipped,  lynx-eyed  mask.  I  seemed  to 
know  that  little  creature  through  and  through,  as 
one  knows  anything  that  one  surprises  off  its 
guard,  sunk  in  its  most  private  moods.  I  seemed 
to  see  her  little  restless,  furtive,  utterly  unmoral 
soul,  so  stripped  of  all  defence,  as  if  she  had  taken 
it  from  her  heart  and  handed  it  out  to  me.  I  saw 
that  she  was  one  of  those  whose  hands  slip  as 
indifferently  into  others'  pockets  as  into  their  own; 
incapable  of  fidelity,  and  incapable  of  trusting; 
quick  as  cats,  and  as  devoid  of  application;  ready 
to  scratch,  ready  to  purr,  ready  to  scratch  again; 
quick  to  change,  and  secretly  as  unchangeable  as 
a  little  pebble.  And  I  thought:  "Here  we  are, 
taking  her  to  the  Zoo  (by  no  means  for  the  first 
time,  if  demeanour  be  any  guide),  and  we  shall 
put  her  in  a  cage,  and  make  her  sew,  and  give  her 

109 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

good  books  which  she  will  not  read;  and  she  will 
sew,  and  walk  up  and  down,  until  we  let  her  out; 
then  she  will  return  to  her  old  haunts,  and  at  once 
go  prowling  and  do  exactly  the  same  again,  what- 
ever it  was,  until  we  catch  her  and  lock  her  up 
once  more.  And  in  this  way  we  shall  go  on 
purifying  Society  until  she  dies.  And  I  thought: 
If  indeed  she  had  been  created  cat  in  body  as  well 
as  in  soul,  we  should  not  have  treated  her  thus, 
but  should  have  said:  'Go  on,  little  cat,  you 
scratch  us  sometimes,  you  steal  often,  you  are  as 
sensual  as  the  night.  All  this  we  cannot  help.  It 
is  your  nature.  So  were  you  made — we  know  you 
cannot  change — you  amuse  us!  Go  on,  little  cat!' 
Would  it  not  then  be  better,  and  less  savoury  of 
humbug  if  we  said  the  same  to  her  whose  cat-soul 
has  chanced  into  this  human  shape?  For  as- 
suredly she  will  but  pilfer,  and  scratch  a  little,  and 
be  mildly  vicious,  in  her  little  life,  and  do  no  des- 
perate harm,  having  but  poor  capacity  for  evil 
behind  that  petty,  thin-lipped  mask.  What  is 
the  good  of  all  this  padlock  business  for  such  as 
she ;  are  we  not  making  mountains  out  of  her  mole- 
hills? Where  is  our  sense  of  proportion,  and  our 
sense  of  humour?  Why  try  to  alter  the  make  and 
shape  of  Nature  with  our  petty  chisels?  Or,  if  we 
must  take  care  of  her,  to  save  ourselves,  in  the 

110 


THE  GRAND  JURY 

name  of  Heaven  let  m  do  it  in  a  better  way  than 
this!  And  suddenly  I  remembered  that  I  was  a 
Grand  Juryman,  a  purifier  of  Society,  who  had 
brought  her  bill  in  true;  and,  that  I  might  not 
think  these  thoughts  unworthy  of  a  good  citizen, 
I  turned  my  eyes  away  from  her  and  took  up  my 
list  of  indictments.  Yes,  there  she  was,  at  least 
so  I  decided:  Number  42,  "Pilson,  Jenny:  Lar- 
ceny, pocket-picking. "  And  I  turned  my  memory 
back  to  the  evidence  about  her  case,  but  I  could 
not  remember  a  single  word.  In  the  margin  I  had 
noted:  "Incorrigible  from  a  child  up;  bad  sur- 
roundings. "  And  a  mad  impulse  came  over  me  to 
go  back  to  my  window  and  call  through  the  bars 
to  her:  "Jenny  Pilson!  Jenny  Pilson!  It  was  I 
who  bred  you  and  surrounded  you  with  evil!  It 
was  I  who  caught  you  for  being  what  I  made  you! 
I  brought  your  biU  in  true!  I  judged  you,  and  I 
caged  you!  Jenny  Pilson!  Jenny  Pilson!"  But 
just  as  I  reached  the  window,  the  door  of  my  wait- 
ing-room was  fortunately  opened,  and  a  voice  said: 
"Now,  sir;  at  your  service!"  ... 

I  sat  again  in  that  scoop  of  the  shore  by  the  long 
rolling  seas,  burying  in  the  sand  the  piece  of  paper 
which  had  summoned  me  away  to  my  Grand  Jury; 
and  the  same  thoughts  came  to  me  with  the  break- 
Ill 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

ing  of  the  waves  that  had  come  to  me  before: 
How,  in  every  wave  was  a  particle  that  had  known 
the  shore  of  every  land;  and  in  each  sparkle  of  the 
hot  sunlight  stealing  up  that  bright  water  into  the 
sky,  the  microcosm  of  all  change  and  of  all  unity! 

1912. 


112 


GONE 

NOT  possible  to  conceive  of  rarer  beauty  than 
that  which  clung  about  the  summer  day 
three  years  ago  when  first  we  had  the  news  of  the 
poor  Herds.  Loveliness  was  a  net  of  golden  fila- 
ments in  which  the  world  was  caught.  It  was 
gravity  itself,  so  tranquil;  and  it  was  a  sort  of 
intoxicating  laughter.  From  the  top  field  that  we 
crossed  to  go  down  to  their  cottage,  all  the  far 
sweep  of  those  outstretched  wings  of  beauty  could 
be  seen.  Very  wonderful  was  the  poise  of  the 
sacred  bird,  that  moved  nowhere  but  in  our  hearts. 
The  lime-tree  scent  was  just  stealing  out  into  air 
for  some  days  already  bereft  of  the  scent  of  hay; 
and  the  sun  was  falling  to  his  evening  home  be- 
hind our  pines  and  beeches.  It  was  no  more  than 
radiant  warm.  And,  as  we  went,  we  wondered 
why  we  had  not  been  told  before  that  Mrs.  Herd 
was  so  very  ill.  It  was  foolish  to  wonder — these 
people  do  not  speak  of  suffering  till  it  is  late. 
To  speak,  when  it  means  what  this  meant — loss 
of  wife  and  mother — was  to  flatter  reality  too 
much.  To  be  healthy,  or — die!  That  is  their 

113 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

creed.  To  go  on  till  they  drop — then  very  soon 
pass  away!  What  room  for  states  between — on 
their  poor  wage,  in  their  poor  cottages? 

We  crossed  the  mill-stream  in  the  hollow — to 
their  white,  thatched  dwelling;  silent,  already 
awed,  almost  resentful  of  this  so-varying  Scheme 
of  Things.  At  the  gateway  Herd  himself  was 
standing,  just  in  from  his  work.  For  work  in  the 
country  does  not  wait  on  illness — even  death 
claims  from  its  onlookers  but  a  few  hours,  birth 
none  at  all.  And  it  is  as  well;  for  what  must  be 
must,  and  in  work  alone  man  rests  from  grief. 
Sorrow  and  anxiety  had  made  strange  alteration 
already  in  Herd's  face.  Through  every  crevice 
of  the  rough,  stolid  mask  the  spirit  was  peeping, 
a  sort  of  quivering  suppliant,  that  seemed  to  ask 
all  the  time:  "Is  it  true?"  A  regular  cottager's 
figure,  this  of  Herd's — a  labourer  of  these  parts — 
strong,  slow,  but  active,  with  just  a  touch  of  the 
untamed  somewhere,  about  the  swing  and  car- 
riage of  him,  about  the  strong  jaw,  and  wide  thick- 
lipped  mouth;  just  that  something  independent, 
which,  in  great  variety,  clings  to  the  natives  of 
these  still  remote,  half-pagan  valleys  by  the  moor. 

We  all  moved  silently  to  the  lee  of  the  outer 
wall,  so  that  our  voices  might  not  carry  up  to  the 
sick  woman  lying  there  under  the  eaves,  almost 

114 


GONE 

within  hand  reach.  "Yes,  sir."  "No,  sir."  "Yes, 
ma'am."  This,  and  the  constant,  unforgettable 
supplication  of  his  eyes,  was  all  that  came  from 
him;  yet  he  seemed  loath  to  let  us  go,  as  though  he 
thought  we  had  some  mysterious  power  to  help 
him — the  magic,  perhaps,  of  money,  to  those  who 
have  none.  Grateful  at  our  promise  of  another 
doctor,  a  specialist,  he  yet  seemed  with  his  eyes 
to  say  that  he  knew  that  such  were  only  em- 
broideries of  Fate.  And  when  we  had  wrung  his 
hand  and  gone,  we  heard  him  coming  after  us. 
His  wife  had  said  she  would  like  to  see  us,  please. 
Would  we  come  up? 

An  old  woman  and  Mrs.  Herd's  sister  were  in 
the  sitting-room;  they  showed  us  to  the  crazy, 
narrow  stairway.  Though  we  lived  distant  but 
four  hundred  yards  of  a  crow's  flight,  we  had  never 
seen  Mrs.  Herd  before,  for  that  is  the  way  of  things 
in  this  land  of  minding  one's  own  business — a  slight, 
dark,  girlish-looking  woman,  almost  quite  refined 
away,  and  with  those  eyes  of  the  dying,  where  the 
spirit  is  coming  through,  as  it  only  does  when  it 
knows  that  all  is  over  except  just  the  passing. 
She  lay  in  a  double  bed,  with  clean  white  sheets. 
A  white-washed  room,  so  low  that  the  ceiling  al- 
most touched  our  heads,  some  flowers  in  a  bowl,  the 
small  lattice  window  open.  Though  it  was  hot 

115 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

in  there,  it  was  better  far  than  the  rooms  of  most 
families  in  towns,  living  on  a  wage  of  twice  as  much; 
for  here  was  no  sign  of  defeat  in  decency  or  cleanli- 
ness. In  her  face,  as  hi  poor  Herd's,  was  that  same 
strange  mingling  of  resigned  despair  and  almost 
eager  appeal,  so  terrible  to  disappoint.  Yet,  try- 
ing not  to  disappoint  it,  one  felt  guilty  of  treachery. 
What  was  the  good,  the  kindness,  in  making  this 
poor  bird  flutter  still  with  hope  against  the  bars, 
when  fast  prison  had  so  surely  closed  in  round  her? 
But  what  else  could  we  do?  We  could  not  give 
her  those  glib  assurances  that  naive  souls  make 
so  easily  to  others  concerning  their  after  state. 

Secretly,  I  think,  we  knew  that  her  philosophy 
of  calm  reality,  that  queer  and  unbidden  growing 
tranquillity  which  precedes  death,  was  nearer  to 
our  own  belief,  than  would  be  any  gilt-edged  ortho- 
doxy; but  nevertheless  (such  is  the  strength  of 
what  is  expected),  we  felt  it  dreadful  that  we  could 
not  console  her  with  the  ordinary  presumptions. 

"  You  mustn't  give  up  hope, "  we  kept  on  saying: 
"The  new  doctor  will  do  a  lot  for  you;  he's  a 
specialist — a  very  clever  man." 

And  she  kept  on  answering :  "  Yes,  sir. "  "  Yes, 
ma'am."  But  still  her  eyes  went  on  asking,  as 
if  there  were  something  else  she  wanted.  And 
then  to  one  of  us  came  an  inspiration : 

116 


GONE 

"You  mustn't  let  your  husband  worry  about 
expense.  That  will  be  all  right. " 

She  smiled  then,  as  if  the  chief  cloud  on  her  soul 
had  been  the  thought  of  the  arrears  her  illness  and 
death  would  leave  weighing  on  him  with  whom  she 
had  shared  this  bed  ten  years  and  more.  And 
with  that  smile  warming  the  memory  of  those 
spirit-haunted  eyes,  we  crept  down-stairs  again, 
and  out  into  the  fields. 

It  was  more  beautiful  than  ever,  just  touched 
already  with  evening  mystery — it  was  better  than 
ever  to  be  alive.  And  the  immortal  wonder  that 
has  haunted  man  since  first  he  became  man,  and 
haunts,  I  think,  even  the  animals — the  unanswer- 
able question,  why  joy  and  beauty  must  ever  be 
walking  hand  in  hand  with  ugliness  and  pain — 
haunted  us  across  those  fields  of  life  and  loveliness. 
It  was  all  right,  no  doubt,  even  reasonable,  since 
without  dark  there  is  no  light.  It  was  part  of 
that  unending  sum  whose  answer  is  not  given;  the 
merest  little  swing  of  the  great  pendulum!  And 
yet — !  To  accept  this  violent  contrast  without 
a  sigh  of  revolt,  without  a  question!  No  sirs,  it 
was  not  so  jolly  as  all  that!  That  she  should  be 
dying  there  at  thirty,  of  a  creeping  malady  which 
she  might  have  checked,  perhaps,  if  she  had  not 
had  too  many  things  to  do  for  the  children  and 

117 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

husband,  to  do  anything  for  herself — if  she  had  not 
been  forced  to  hold  the  creed:  Be  healthy,  or  die! 
This  was  no  doubt  perfectly  explicable  and  in 
accordance  with  the  Supreme  Equation;  yet  we, 
enjoying  life,  and  health,  and  ease  of  money,  felt 
horror  and  revolt  on  this  evening  of  such  beauty. 
Nor  at  the  moment  did  we  derive  great  comfort 
from  the  thought  that  life  slips  in  and  out  of 
sheath,  like  sun-sparks  on  water,  and  that  of  all 
the  cloud  of  summer  midges  dancing  in  the  last 
gleam,  not  one  would  be  alive  to-morrow. 

It  was  three  evenings  later  that  we  heard  un- 
certain footfalls  on  the  flagstones  of  the  verandah, 
then  a  sort  of  brushing  sound  against  the  wood  of 
the  long,  open  window.  Drawing  aside  the  cur- 
tain, one  of  us  looked  out.  Herd  was  standing 
there  in  the  bright  moonlight,  bareheaded,  with 
roughened  hair.  He  came  in,  and  seeming  not  to 
know  quite  where  he  went,  took  stand  by  the 
hearth,  and  putting  up  his  dark  hand,  gripped 
the  mantelshelf.  Then,  as  if  recollecting  himself, 
he  said:  "Gude  evening  sir;  beg  pardon,  M'm." 
No  more  for  a  full  minute;  but  his  hand,  taking 
some  little  china  thing,  turned  it  over  and  over 
without  ceasing,  and  down  his  broken  face  tears 
ran.  Then,  very  suddenly,  he  said:  "She's 
gone."  And  his  hand  turned  over  and  over  that 

118 


GONE 

little  china  thing,  and  the  tears  went  on  rolling 
down.  Then,  stumbling,  and  swaying  like  a  man 
in  drink,  he  made  his  way  out  again  into  the 
moonlight.  We  watched  him  across  the  lawn 
and  path,  and  through  the  gate,  till  his  footfalls 
died  out  there  in  the  field,  and  his  figure  was 
lost  in  the  black  shadow  of  the  holly  hedge. 

And  the  night  was  so  beautiful,  so  utterly, 
glamourously  beautiful,  with  its  star-flowers,  and 
its  silence,  and  its  trees  clothed  in  moonlight. 
All  was  tranquil  as  a  dream  of  sleep.  But  it  was 
long  before  our  hearts,  wandering  with  poor  Herd, 
would  let  us  remember  that  she  had  slipped  away 
into  so  beautiful  a  dream. 

The  dead  do  not  suffer  from  their  rest  in  beauty. 
But  the  living ! 

1911. 


119 


THRESHING 

YT  THEN  the  drone  of  the  thresher  breaks 
VV  through  the  autumn  sighing  of  trees  and 
wind,  or  through  that  stillness  of  the  first  frost,  I 
get  restless  and  more  restless,  till,  throwing  down 
my  pen,  I  have  gone  out  to  see.  For  there  is 
nothing  like  the  sight  of  threshing  for  making  one 
feel  good — not  in  the  sense  of  comfort,  but  at 
heart.  There,  under  the  pines  and  the  already 
leafless  elms  and  beech-trees,  close  to  the  great 
stacks,  is  the  big,  busy  creature,  with  its  small 
black  puffing  engine  astern;  and  there,  all  around 
it,  is  that  conglomeration  of  unsentimental  labour 
which  invests  all  the  crises  of  farm  work  with  such 
fascination.  The  crew  of  the  farm  is  only  five  all 
told,  but  to-day  they  are  fifteen,  and  none  stran- 
gers, save  the  owners  of  the  travelling  thresher. 

They  are  working  without  respite  and  with 
little  speech,  not  at  all  as  if  they  had  been  brought 
together  for  the  benefit  of  some  one  else's  corn, 
but  as  though  they,  one  and  all,  had  a  private 
grudge  against  Time  and  a  personal  pleasure  in 
finishing  this  job,  which,  while  it  lasts,  is  bringing 

120 


THRESHING 

them  extra  pay  and  most  excellent  free  feeding. 
Just  as  after  a  dilatory  voyage  a  crew  will  brace 
themselves  for  the  run  in,  recording  with  sudden 
energy  their  consciousness  of  triumph  over  the 
elements,  so  on  a  farm  the  harvests  of  hay  and 
corn,  sheep-shearing,  and  threshing  will  bring  out 
in  all  a  common  sentiment,  a  kind  of  sporting 
energy,  a  defiant  spurt,  as  it  were,  to  score  off 
Nature;  for  it  is  only  a  philosopher  here  and 
there  among  them,  I  think,  who  sees  that  Nature 
is  eager  to  be  scored  off  in  this  fashion,  being  anx- 
ious that  some  one  should  eat  her  kindly  fruits. 

With  ceremonial  as  grave  as  that  which  is  at 
work  within  the  thresher  itself,  the  tasks  have  been 
divided.  At  the  root  of  all  things,  pitchforking 
from  the  stack,  stands  the  farmer,  moustached, 
and  always  upright — was  he  not  in  the  Yeomanry? 
— dignified  in  a  hard  black  hat,  no  waistcoat,  and 
his  working  coat  so  ragged  that  it  would  never 
cling  to  him  but  for  pure  affection.  Between  him 
and  the  body  of  the  machine  are  five  more  pitch- 
forks, directing  the  pale  flood  of  raw  material. 
There,  amongst  them,  is  poor  Herd,  still  so  sad 
from  his  summer  loss,  plodding  doggedly  away. 
To  watch  him  even  now  makes  one  feel  how  terri- 
ble is  that  dumb  grief  which  has  never  learned  to 
moan.  And  there  is  George  Yeoford,  almost  too 

121 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

sober;  and  Murdon  plying  his  pitchfork  with  a 
supernatural  regularity  that  cannot  quite  dim  his 
queer  brigand's  face  of  dark,  soft  gloom  shot  with 
sudden  humours,  his  soft,  dark  corduroys  and 
battered  hat.  Occasionally  he  stops,  and  taking 
off  that  hat,  wipes  his  corrugated  brow  under 
black  hair,  and  seems  to  brood  over  his  own  regu- 
larity. 

Down  here,  too,  where  I  stand,  each  separate 
function  of  the  thresher  has  its  appointed  slave. 
Here  Cedric  rakes  the  chaff  pouring  from  the  side 
down  into  the  chaff-shed.  Carting  the  straw 
that  streams  from  the  thresher  bows,  are  Michel- 
more  and  Neck — the  little  man  who  cannot  read, 
but  can  milk  and  whistle  the  hearts  out  of  his 
cows  till  they  follow  him  like  dogs.  At  the  thresh- 
er's stern  is  Morris,  the  driver,  selected  because  of 
that  utter  reliability  which  radiates  from  his 
broad,  handsome  face.  His  part  is  to  attend  the 
sacking  of  the  three  kinds  of  grain  for  ever  sieving 
out.  He  murmurs:  "Busy  work,  sir!"  and  opens 
a  little  door  to  show  me  how  "the  machinery  does 
it  all, "  holding  a  sack  between  his  knees  and  some 
string  in  his  white  teeth.  Then  away  goes  the 
sack — four  bushels,  one  hundred  and  sixty  pounds 
of  "genuines,  seconds,  or  seed" — wheeled  by 
Cedric  on  a  little  trolley  thing,  to  where  George- 

122 


THRESHING 

the-Gaul  or  Jim-the-Early-Saxon  is  waiting  to 
bear  it  on  his  back  up  the  stone  steps  into  the 
corn-chamber. 

It  has  been  raining  in  the  night;  the  ground  is  a 
churn  of  straw  and  mud,  and  the  trees  still  drip; 
but  now  there  is  sunlight,  a  sweet  air,  and  clear 
sky,  wine-coloured  through  the  red,  naked,  beech- 
twigs  tipped  with  white  untimely  buds.  Nothing 
can  be  more  lovely  than  this  late  autumn  day,  so 
still,  save  for  the  droning  of  the  thresher  and  the 
constant  tinny  chuckle  of  the  grey,  thin-headed 
Guinea-fowl,  driven  by  this  business  away  from 
their  usual  haunts. 

And  soon  the  feeling  that  I  knew  would  come 
begins  creeping  over  me,  the  sense  of  an  extraor- 
dinary sanity  in  this  never-ceasing  harmonious 
labour  pursued  in  the  autumn  air  faintly  perfumed 
with  wood-smoke,  with  the  scent  of  chaff,  and 
whiffs  from  that  black  puffing-Billy;  the  sense  that 
there  is  nothing  between  this  clean  toil — not  too 
hard  but  hard  enough — and  the  clean  consumption 
of  its  clean  results;  the  sense  that  nobody  except 
myself  is  in  the  least  conscious  of  how  sane  it  all 
is.  The  brains  of  these  sane  ones  are  all  too  busy 
with  the  real  affairs  of  life,  the  disposition  of  their 
wages,  anticipation  of  dinner,  some  girl,  some 
junketing,  some  wager,  the  last  rifle  match,  and, 

123 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

more  than  all,  with  that  pleasant  rhythmic  noth- 
ingness, companion  of  the  busy  swing  and  play  of 
muscles,  which  of  all  states  is  secretly  most  akin 
to  the  deep  unconsciousness  of  life  itself.  Thus 
to  work  in  the  free  air  for  the  good  of  all  and  the 
hurt  of  none,  without  worry  or  the  breath  of  acri- 
mony— surely  no  phase  of  human  life  so  nears  the 
life  of  the  truly  civilised  community — the  life  of 
a  hive  of  bees.  Not  one  of  these  working  so  sanely 
— unless  it  be  Morris,  who  will  spend  his  Sunday 
afternoon  on  some  high  rock  just  watching  sun- 
light and  shadow  drifting  on  the  moors — not  one, 
I  think,  is  distraught  by  perception  of  his  own 
sanity,  by  knowledge  of  how  near  he  is  to  Harmony, 
not  even  by  appreciation  of  the  still  radiance  of 
this  day,  or  its  innumerable  fine  shades  of  colour. 
It  is  all  work,  and  no  moody  consciousness — all 
work,  and  will  end  in  sleep. 

I  leave  them  soon,  and  make  my  way  up  the 
stone  steps  to  the  "corn  chamber,"  where  tran- 
quillity is  crowned.  In  the  whitewashed  room 
the  corn  lies  in  drifts  and  ridges,  three  to  four  feet 
deep,  all  silvery-dun,  like  some  remote  sand  des- 
ert, lifeless  beneath  the  moon.  Here  it  lies,  and 
into  it,  staggering  under  the  sacks,  George-the- 
Gaul  and  Jim-the-Early-Saxon  tramp  up  to  their 
knees,  spill  the  sacks  over  their  heads,  and  out 

124 


THRESHING 

again;  and  above  where  their  feet  have  plunged 
the  patient  surface  closes  again,  smooth.  And  as 
I  stand  there  in  the  doorway,  looking  at  that 
silvery  corn  drift,  I  think  of  the  whole  process, 
from  seed  sown  to  the  last  sieving  into  this  tran- 
quil resting-place.  I  think  of  the  slow,  dogged 
ploughman,  with  the  crows  above  him  on  the  wind ; 
of  the  swing  of  the  sower's  arm,  dark  up  against 
grey  sky  on  the  steep  field.  I  think  of  the  seed 
snug-burrowing  for  safety,  and  its  mysterious 
ferment  under  the  warm  Spring  ram,  of  the  soft 
green  shoots  tapering  up  so  shyly  toward  the  first 
sun,  and  hardening  in  air  to  thin  wiry  stalk.  I 
think  of  the  unnumerable  tiny  beasts  that  have 
jungled  in  that  pale  forest;  of  the  winged  blue 
jewels  of  butterfly  risen  from  it  to  hover  on  the 
wild-rustling  blades;  of  that  continual  music 
played  there  by  the  wind;  of  the  chicory  and  poppy 
flowers  that  have  been  its  lights-o'-love,  as  it  grew 
tawny  and  full  of  life,  before  the  appointed  date 
when  it  should  return  to  its  captivity.  I  think 
of  that  slow-travelling  hum  and  swish  which  laid 
it  low,  of  the  gathering  to  stack,  and  the  long  wait- 
ing under  the  rustle  and  drip  of  the  sheltering 
trees,  until  yesterday  the  hoot  of  the  thresher 
blew,  and  there  began  the  falling  into  this  dun 
silvery  peace.  Here  it  will  lie  with  the  pale  sun 

125 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

narrowly  filtering  in  on  it,  and  by  night  the  pale 
moon,  till  slowly,  week  by  week,  it  is  stolen  away, 
and  its  ridges  and  drifts  sink  and  sink,  and  the 
beasts  have  eaten  it  all.  .  .  . 

When  the  dusk  is  falling,  I  go  out  to  them  again. 
They  have  nearly  finished  now;  the  chaff  in  the 
chaff-shed  is  mounting  hillock-high;  only  the 
little  barley  stack  remains  unthreshed.  Mrs. 
George-the-Gaul  is  standing  with  a  jug  to  give 
drink  to  the  tired  ones.  Some  stars  are  already 
netted  in  the  branches  of  the  pines;  the  Guinea- 
fowl  are  silent.  But  still  the  harmonious  thresher 
hums  and  showers  from  three  sides  the  straw,  the 
chaff,  the  corn;  and  the  men  fork,  and  rake,  and 
cart,  and  carry,  sleep  growing  in  their  muscles, 
silence  on  their  tongues,  and  the  tranquillity  of 
the  long  day  nearly  ended  in  their  souls.  They 
will  go  on  till  it  is  quite  dark. 

1911. 


126 


THAT  OLD-TIME   PLACE 

"'VT'ES,   suh — here  we    are    at    that    old-time 

A  place!"  And  our  dark  driver  drew  up  his 
little  victoria  gently. 

Through  the  open  doorway,  into  a  dim,  cavern- 
ous, ruined  house  of  New  Orleans  we  passed.  The 
mildew  and  dirt,  the  dark  denuded  dankness  of 
that  old  hostel,  rotting  down  with  damp  and  time! 

And  our  guide,  the  tall,  thin,  grey-haired  dame, 
who  came  forward  with  such  native  ease  and  moved 
before  us,  touching  this  fungused  wall,  that  rusting 
stairway,  and  telling,  as  it  were,  no  one  in  her 
soft,  slow  speech,  things  that  any  one  could  see — 
what  a  strange  and  fitting  figure! 

Before  the  smell  of  the  deserted,  oozing  rooms, 
before  that  old  creature  leading  us  on  and  on, 
negligent  of  all  our  questions,  and  talking  to  the 
air,  as  though  we  were  not,  we  felt  such  discom- 
fort that  we  soon  made  to  go  out  again  into  such 
freshness  as  there  was  on  that  day  of  dismal  heat. 
Then  realising,  it  seemed,  that  she  was  losing  us, 
our  old  guide  turned;  for  the  first  time  looking  in 
our  faces,  she  smiled,  and  said  in  her  sweet,  weak 
voice,  like  the  sound  from  the  strings  of  a  spinet 

127 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

long  unplayed  on:  "Don'  you  wahnd  to  see  the 
dome-room :  an7  all  the  other  rooms  right  here,  of 
this  old-time  place?" 

Again  those  words !  We  had  not  the  hearts  to 
disappoint  her.  And  as  we  followed  on  and  on, 
along  the  mouldering  corridors  and  rooms  where 
the  black  peeling  papers  hung  like  stalactites,  the 
dominance  of  our  senses  gradually  dropped  from 
us,  and  with  our  souls  we  saw  its  soul — the  soul  of 
this  old-time  place;  this  mustering  house  of  the 
old  South,  bereft  of  all  but  ghosts  and  the  grey 
pigeons  niched  in  the  rotting  gallery  round  a  nar- 
row courtyard  open  to  the  sky. 

"This  is  the  dome-room,  suh  and  lady;  right 
over  the  slave-market  it  is.  Here  they  did  the 
business  of  the  State — sure;  old-time  heroes  up 
there  in  the  roof — Washington,  Hamilton,  Jeffer- 
son, Davis,  Lee — there  they  are!  All  gone — 
now!  Yes,  suh!" 

A  fine — yea,  even  a  splendid  room,  of  great 
height,  and  carved  grandeur,  with  hand-wrought 
bronze  sconces  and  a  band  of  metal  bordering, 
all  blackened  with  oblivion.  And  the  faces  of 
those  old  heroes  encircling  that  domed  ceiling 
were  blackened  too,  and  scarred  with  damp,  be- 
yond recognition.  Here,  beneath  their  gaze,  men 
had  banqueted  and  danced  and  ruled.  The  pride 

128 


THAT  OLD-TIME  PLACE 

and  might  and  vivid  strength  of  things  still 
fluttered  their  uneasy  flags  of  spirit,  moved  dis- 
herited  wings!  Those  old-time  feasts  and  grave 
discussions — we  seemed  to  see  them  printed  on  the 
thick  air,  imprisoned  in  this  great  chamber  built 
above  their  dark  foundations.  The  pride  and  the 
might  and  the  vivid  strength  of  things — gone,  all 
gone! 

We  became  conscious  again  of  that  soft,  weak 
voice. 

"Not  hearing  very  well,  suh,  I  have  it  all  printed, 
lady — beautifully  told  here — yes,  indeed!" 

She  was  putting  cards  into  our  hands;  then, 
impassive,  maintaining  ever  her  impersonal  chant, 
the  guardian  of  past  glory  led  us  on. 

"Now  we  shall  see  the  slave-market — down- 
stairs, underneath!  It's  wet  for  the  lady — the 
water  comes  in  now — yes,  suh!" 

On  the  crumbling  black  and  white  marble  floor- 
ings the  water  indeed  was  trickling  into  pools. 
And  down  in  the  halls  there  came  to  us  wandering 
— strangest  thing  that  ever  strayed  through  de- 
serted grandeur — a  brown,  broken  horse,  lean, 
with  a  sore  flank  and  a  head  of  tremendous  age. 
It  stopped  and  gazed  at  us,  as  though  we  might  be 
going  to  give  it  things  to  eat,  then  passed  on, 
stumbling  over  the  ruined  marbles.  For  a  mo- 

129 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

ment  we  had  thought  him  ghost — one  of  the  many. 
But  he  was  not,  since  his  hoofs  sounded.  The 
scrambling  clatter  of  them  had  died  out  into  si- 
lence before  we  came  to  that  dark,  crypt-like  cham- 
ber whose  marble  columns  were  ringed  in  iron, 
veritable  pillars  of  foundation.  And  then  we  saw 
that  our  old  guide's  hands  were  full  of  newspapers. 
She  struck  a  match;  they  caught  fire  and  blazed. 
Holding  high  that  torch,  she  said:  "See!  Up 
there's  his  name,  above  where  he  stood.  The 
auctioneer.  Oh  yes,  indeed!  Here's  where  they 
sold  them!" 

Below  that  name,  decaying  on  the  wall,  we  had 
the  slow,  uncanny  feeling  of  some  one  standing 
there  in  the  gleam  and  flicker  from  that  paper 
torch.  For  a  moment  the  whole  shadowy  room 
seemed  full  of  forms  and  faces.  Then  the  torch 
died  out,  and  our  old  guide,  pointing  through  an 
archway  with  the  blackened  stump  of  it,  said: 
"'Twas  here  they  kept  them — indeed,  yes!" 
We  saw  before  us  a  sort  of  vault,  stone-built,  and 
low,  and  long.  The  light  there  was  too  dim  for 
us  to  make  out  anything  but  walls  and  heaps  of 
rusting  scrap-iron  cast  away  there  and  mouldering 
down.  But  trying  to  pierce  that  darkness  we  be- 
came conscious,  as  it  seemed,  of  innumerable  eyes 
gazing,  not  at  us,  but  through  the  archway  where 

130 


THAT  OLD-TIME  PLACE 

we  stood;  innumerable  white  eyeballs  gleaming 
out  of  blackness.  From  behind  us  came  a  little 
laugh.  It  floated  past  through  the  archway, 
toward  those  eyes.  Who  was  that?  Who  laughed 
in  there?  The  old  South  itself — that  incredible, 
fine,  lost  soul!  That  "old-time"  thing  of  old 
ideals,  blindfolded  by  its  own  history!  That 
queer  proud  blend  of  simple  chivalry  and  tyranny, 
of  piety  and  the  abhorrent  thing!  Who  was  it 
laughed  there  in  the  old  slave-market — laughed  at 
these  white  eyeballs  glaring  from  out  of  the  black- 
ness of  their  dark  cattle-pen?  What  poor  departed 
soul  in  this  House  of  Melancholy?  But  there  was 
no  ghost  when  we  turned  to  look — only  our  old 
guide  with  her  sweet  smile. 

"Yes,  suh.  Here  they  all  came — 'twas  the 
finest  hotel — before  the  war-time;  old  Southern 
families — buyin'  an'  sellin'  their  property.  Yes, 
ma'am,  very  interesting!  This  way!  And  here 
were  the  bells  to  all  the  rooms.  Broken,  you  see — 
all  broken!" 

And  rather  quickly  we  passed  away,  out  of  that 
"old-time  place";  where  something  had  laughed, 
and  the  drip,  drip,  drip  of  water  down  the  walls 
was  as  the  sound  of  a  spirit  grieving. 

1912, 


131 


ROMANCE— THREE  GLEAMS 


ON  that  New  Year's  morning  when  I  drew  up 
the  blind  it  was  still  nearly  dark,  but  for 
the  faintest  pink  flush  glancing  out  there  on  the 
horizon  of  black  water.  The  far  shore  of  the  river's 
mouth  was  just  soft  dusk;  and  the  dim  trees  be- 
low me  were  in  perfect  stillness.  There  was  no 
lap  of  water.  And  then — I  saw  her,  drifting  hi  on 
the  tide — the  little  ship,  passaging  below  me,  a 
happy  ghost.  Like  no  thing  of  this  world  she 
came,  ending  her  flight,  with  sail-wings  closing  and 
her  glowing  lantern  eyes.  There  was  I  know  not 
what  of  stealthy  joy  about  her  thus  creeping  in  to 
the  unexpecting  land.  And  I  wished  she  would 
never  pass,  but  go  on  gliding  by  down  there  for  ever 
with  her  dark  ropes,  and  her  bright  lanterns,  and 
her  mysterious  felicity,  so  that  I  might  have  for 
ever  in  my  heart  the  blessed  feeling  she  brought 
me,  coming  like  this  out  of  that  great  mystery  the 
sea.  If  only  she  need  not  change  to  solidity,  but 
ever  be  this  visitor  from  the  unknown,  this  sacred 
bird,  telling  with  her  half-seen,  trailing-down 
plume-sails  the  story  of  uncharted  wonder.  If 

132 


ROMANCE— THREE  GLEAMS 

only  I  might  go  on  trembling,  as  I  was,  with  the 
rapture  of  all  I  did  not  know  and  could  not  see, 
yet  felt  pressing  against  me  and  touching  my  face 
with  its  lips!  To  think  of  her  at  anchor  in  cold 
light  was  like  flinging-to  a  door  in  the  face  of  happi- 
ness. And  just  then  she  struck  her  bell;  the  faint 
silvery  far-down  sound  fled  away  before  her,  and 
to  every  side,  out  into  the  utter  hush,  to  discover 
echo.  But  nothing  answered,  as  if  fearing  to 
break  the  spell  of  her  coming,  to  brush  with  reality 
the  dark  sea  dew  from  her  sail-wings.  But  within 
we,  in  response,  there  began  the  song  of  all  un- 
known things;  the  song  so  tenuous,  so  ecstatic, 
that  seems  to  sweep  and  quiver  across  such  thin 
golden  strings,  and  like  an  eager  dream  dies  too 
soon.  The  song  of  the  secret-knowing  wind  that 
has  peered  through  so  great  forests  and  over  such 
wild  sea;  blown  on  so  many  faces,  and  in  the  jun- 
gles of  the  grass — the  song  of  all  that  the  wind  has 
seen  and  felt.  The  song  of  lives  that  I  should 
never  live;  of  the  loves  that  I  should  never  love — 
singing  to  me  as  though  I  should !  And  suddenly 
I  felt  that  I  could  not  bear  my  little  ship  of  dreams 
to  grow  hard  and  grey,  her  bright  lanterns  drowned 
in  the  cold  light,  her  dark  ropes  spidery  and  taut, 
her  sea-wan  sails  all  furled,  and  she  no  more  en- 
chanted; and  turning  away  I  let  fall  the  curtain. 

133 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

II 

Then  what  happens  to  the  moon?  She,  who, 
shy  and  veiled,  slips  out  before  dusk  to  take  the 
air  of  heaven,  wandering  timidly  among  the  col- 
umned clouds,  and  fugitive  from  the  staring  of 
the  sun;  she,  who,  when  dusk  has  come,  rules  the 
sentient  night  with  such  chaste  and  icy  spell — 
whither  and  how  does  she  retreat? 

I  came  on  her  one  morning — I  surprised  her. 
She  was  stealing  into  a  dark  wintry  wood,  and  five 
little  stars  were  chasing  her.  She  was  orange- 
hooded,  a  light-o'-love  dismissed — unashamed  and 
unfatigued,  having  taken  all.  And  she  was  look- 
ing back  with  her  almond  eyes,  across  her  dark- 
ivory  shoulder,  at  Night  where  he  still  lay  drowned 
in  the  sleep  she  had  brought  him.  What  a  strange, 
slow,  mocking  look!  So  might  Aphrodite  herself 
have  looked  back  at  some  weary  lover,  remem- 
bering the  fire  of  his  first  embrace.  Insatiate, 
smiling  creature,  slipping  down  to  the  rim  of  the 
world  to  her  bath  in  the  sweet  waters  of  dawn, 
whence  emerging,  pure  as  a  water  lily,  she  would 
float  in  the  cool  sky  till  evening  came  again! 
And  just  then  she  saw  me  looking,  and  hid  be- 
hind a  holm-oak  tree;  but  I  could  still  see  the 
gleam  of  one  shoulder  and  her  long  narrow  eyes 

134 


ROMANCE— THREE  GLEAMS 

pursuing  me.  I  went  up  to  the  tree  and  parted 
its  dark  boughs  to  take  her;  but  she  had  slipped 
behind  another.  I  called  to  her  to  stand,  if  only 
for  one  moment.  But  she  smiled  and  went  slip- 
ping on,  and  I  ran  thrusting  through  the  wet 
bushes,  leaping  the  fallen  trunks.  The  scent  of 
rotting  leaves  disturbed  by  my  feet  leaped  out 
into  the  darkness,  and  birds,  surprised,  fluttered 
away.  And  still  I  ran — she  slipping  ever  further 
into  the  grove,  and  ever  looking  back  at  me.  And 
I  thought:  But  I  will  catch  you  yet,  you  nymph 
of  perdition!  The  wood  will  soon  be  passed,  you 
will  have  no  cover  then!  And  from  her  eyes,  and 
the  scanty  gleam  of  her  flying  limbs,  I  never  looked 
away,  not  even  when  I  stumbled  or  ran  against 
tree  trunks  in  my  blind  haste.  And  at  every  clear- 
ing I  flew  more  furiously,  thinking  to  seize  all  of 
her  with  my  gaze  before  she  could  cross  the  glade; 
but  ever  she  found  some  little  low  tree,  some  bush 
of  birch  ungrown,  or  the  far  top  branches  of  the 
next  grove  to  screen  her  flying  body  and  preserve 
allurement.  And  all  the  time  she  was  dipping, 
dipping  to  the  rim  of  the  world.  And  then  I 
tripped;  but,  as  I  rose,  I  saw  that  she  had  lin- 
gered for  me;  her  long  sliding  eyes  were  full,  it 
seemed  to  me,  of  pity,  as  if  she  would  have  liked 
for  me  to  have  enjoyed  the  sight  of  her.  I  stood 

135 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

still,  breathless,  thinking  that  at  last  she  would 
consent;  but  flinging  back,  up  into  the  air,  one 
dark-ivory  arm,  she  sighed  and  vanished.  And 
the  breath  of  her  sigh  stirred  all  the  birch-tree 
twigs  just  coloured  with  the  dawn.  Long  I  stood 
in  that  thicket  gazing  at  the  spot  where  she  had 
leapt  from  me  over  the  edge  of  the  world — my 
heart  quivering. 

Ill 

We  embarked  on  the  estuary  steamer  that  win- 
ter morning  just  as  daylight  came  full.  The  sun 
was  on  the  wing  scattering  little  white  clouds,  as 
an  eagle  might  scatter  doves.  They  scurried  up 
before  him  with  their  broken  feathers  tipped  and 
tinged  with  gold.  In  the  air  was  a  touch  of  frost, 
and  a  smoky  mist-drift  clung  here  and  there  above 
the  reeds,  blurring  the  shores  of  the  lagoon  so  that 
we  seemed  to  be  steaming  across  boundless  water, 
till  some  clump  of  trees  would  fling  its  top  out  of 
the  fog,  then  fall  back  into  whiteness. 

And  then,  in  that  thick  vapour,  rounding  I  sup- 
pose some  curve,  we  came  suddenly  into  we  knew 
not  what — all  white  and  moving  it  was,  as  if  the 
mist  were  crazed;  murmuring,  too,  with  a  sort  of 
restless  beating.  We  seemed  to  be  passing  through 
a  ghost — the  ghost  of  all  the  life  that  had  sprung 

136 


ROMANCE— THREE  GLEAMS 

from  this  water  and  its  shores;  we  seemed  to 
have  left  reality,  to  be  travelling  through  live 
wonder. 

And  the  fantastic  thought  sprang  into  my  mind: 
I  have  died.  This  is  the  voyage  of  my  soul  in  the 
wild.  I  am  in  the  final  wilderness  of  spirits — lost 
in  the  ghost  robe  that  wraps  the  earth.  There 
seemed  in  all  this  white  murmuration  to  be  mill- 
ions of  tiny  hands  stretching  out  to  me,  millions 
of  whispering  voices,  of  wistful  eyes.  I  had  no 
fear,  but  a  curious  baffled  eagerness,  the  strangest 
feeling  of  having  lost  myself  and  become  part  of 
this  around  me;  exactly  as  if  my  own  hands  and 
voice  and  eyes  had  left  me  and  were  groping,  and 
whispering,  and  gazing  out  there  in  the  eeriness. 
I  was  no  longer  a  man  on  an  estuary  steamer,  but 
part  of  sentient  ghostliness.  Nor  did  I  feel  un- 
happy; it  seemed  as  though  I  had  never  been  any- 
thing but  this  Bedouin  spirit  wandering. 

We  passed  through  again  into  the  stillness  of 
plain  mist,  and  all  those  eerie  sensations  went, 
leaving  nothing  but  curiosity  to  know  what  this 
was  that  we  had  traversed.  Then  suddenly  the 
sun  came  flaring  out,  and  we  saw  behind  us  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  white  gulls  dipping,  wheel- 
ing, brushing  the  water  with  their  wings,  bewitched 
with  sun  and  mist.  That  was  all.  And  yet — 

137 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

that  white-winged  legion  through  whom  we  had 
ploughed  our  way  were  not,  could  never  be,  to  me 
just  gulls — there  was  more  than  mere  sun-glamour 
gilding  their  misty  plumes;  there  was  the  wizardry 
of  my  past  wonder,  the  enchantment  of  romance. 

1912. 


138 


MEMORIES 

WE  set  out  to  meet  him  at  Waterloo  Station 
on  a  dull  day  of  February — I,  who  had 
owned  his  impetuous  mother,  knowing  a  little 
what  to  expect,  while  to  my  companion  he  would 
be  all  original.  We  stood  there  waiting  (for  the 
Salisbury  train  was  late),  and  wondering  with  a 
warm,  half-fearful  eagerness  what  sort  of  new 
thread  Life  was  going  to  twine  into  our  skein.  I 
think  our  chief  dread  was  that  he  might  have  light 
eyes — those  yellow  Chinese  eyes  of  the  common, 
parti-coloured  spaniel.  And  each  new  minute  of 
the  train's  tardiness  increased  our  anxious  com- 
passion: His  first  journey;  his  first  separation 
from  his  mother;  this  black  two-months'  baby! 
Then  the  train  ran  in,  and  we  hastened  to  look  for 
him.  "Have  you  a  dog  for  us?" 

"A  dog!  Not  in  this  van.  Ask  the  rear- 
guard." 

"Have  you  a  dog  for  us?" 

"That's  right.  From  Salisbury.  Here's  your 
wild  beast,  sir!" 

From  behind  a  wooden  crate  we  saw  a  long  black 
139 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

muzzled  nose  poking  round  at  us,  and  heard  a 
faint  hoarse  whimpering. 

I  remember  my  first  thought: 

"Isn't  his  nose  too  long?" 

But  to  my  companion's  heart  it  went  at  once, 
because  it  was  swollen  from  crying  and  being 
pressed  against  things  that  he  could  not  see 
through.  We  took  him  out — soft,  wobbly,  tear- 
ful; set  him  down  on  his  four,  as  yet  not  quite 
simultaneous  legs,  and  regarded  him.  Or,  rather, 
my  companion  did,  having  her  head  on  one  side, 
and  a  quavering  smile;  and  I  regarded  her,  knowing 
that  I  should  thereby  get  a  truer  impression  of  him. 

He  wandered  a  little  round  our  legs,  neither 
wagging  his  tail  nor  licking  at  our  hands;  then  he 
looked  up,  and  my  companion  said:  "He's  an 
angel!" 

I  was  not  so  certain.  He  seemed  hammer- 
headed,  with  no  eyes  at  all,  and  little  connection 
between  his  head,  his  body,  and  his  legs.  His 
ears  were  very  long,  as  long  as  his  poor  nose;  and 
gleaming  down  in  the  blackness  of  him  I  could  see 
the  same  white  star  that  disgraced  his  mother's 
chest. 

Picking  him  up,  we  carried  him  to  a  four-wheeled 
cab,  and  took  his  muzzle  off.  His  little  dark- 
brown  eyes  were  resolutely  fixed  on  distance,  and 

140 


MEMORIES 

by  his  refusal  to  even  smell  the  biscuits  we  had 
brought  to  make  him  happy,  we  knew  that  the 
human  being  had  not  yet  come  into  a  life  that  had 
contained  so  far  only  a  mother,  a  Wood-shed,  and 
four  other  soft,  wobbly,  black,  hammer-headed 
angels,  smelling  of  themselves,  and  warmth,  and 
wood  shavings.  It  was  pleasant  to  feel  that  to  us 
he  would  surrender  an  untouched  love,  that  is, 
if  he  would  surrender  anything.  Suppose  he  did 
not  take  to  us! 

And  just  then  something  must  have  stirred  in 
him,  for  he  turned  up  his  swollen  nose  and  stared 
at  my  companion,  and  a  little  later  rubbed  the 
dry  pinkness  of  his  tongue  against  my  thumb.  In 
that  look,  and  that  unconscious  restless  lick,  he 
was  trying  hard  to  leave  unhappiness  behind,  try- 
ing hard  to  feel  that  these  new  creatures  with 
stroking  paws  and  queer  scents,  were  his  mother; 
yet  all  the  time  he  knew,  I  am  sure,  that  they  were 
something  bigger,  more  permanently,  desperately, 
his.  The  first  sense  of  being  owned,  perhaps 
(who  knows)  of  owning,  had  stirred  in  him.  He 
would  never  again  be  quite  the  same  unconscious 
creature. 

A  little  way  from  the  end  of  our  journey  we  got 
out  and  dismissed  the  cab.  He  could  not  too  soon 
know  the  scents  and  pavements  of  this  London 

141 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

where  the  chief  of  his  life  must  pass.  I  can  see 
now  his  first  bumble  down  that  wide,  back-water 
of  a  street,  how  continually  and  suddenly  he  sat 
down  to  make  sure  of  his  own  legs,  how  con- 
tinually he  lost  our  heels.  He  showed  us  then  in 
full  perfection  what  was  afterwards  to  be  an  incon- 
venient— if  endearing — characteristic :  At  any  call 
or  whistle  he  would  look  in  precisely  the  opposite 
direction.  How  many  times  all  through  his  life 
have  I  not  seen  him,  at  my  whistle,  start  violently 
and  turn  his  tail  to  me,  then,  with  nose  thrown 
searchingly  from  side  to  side,  begin  to  canter 
toward  the  horizon! 

In  that  first  walk,  we  met,  fortunately,  but  one 
vehicle,  a  brewer's  dray;  he  chose  that  moment  to 
attend  to  the  more  serious  affairs  of  life,  sitting 
quietly  before  the  horses'  feet  and  requiring  to  be 
moved  by  hand.  From  the  beginning  he  had  his 
dignity,  and  was  extremely  difficult  to  lift,  owing 
to  the  length  of  his  middle  distance. 

What  strange  feelings  must  have  stirred  in  his 
little  white  soul  when  he  first  smelled  carpet! 
But  it  was  all  so  strange  to  him  that  day — I  doubt 
if  he  felt  more  than  I  did  when  I  first  travelled  to 
my  private  school,  reading  "Tales  of  a  Grand- 
father, "  and  plied  with  tracts  and  sherry  by  my 
father's  man  of  business. 

142 


MEMORIES 

That  night,  indeed,  for  several  nights,  he  slept 
with  me,  keeping  me  too  warm  down  my  back, 
and  waking  me  now  and  then  with  quaint  sleepy 
whimperings.  Indeed,  all  through  his  life  he  flew 
a  good  deal  in  his  sleep,  fighting  dogs  and  seeing 
ghosts,  running  after  rabbits  and  thrown  sticks; 
and  to  the  last  one  never  quite  knew  whether  or 
no  to  rouse  him  when  his  four  black  feet  began  to 
jerk  and  quiver.  His  dreams  were  like  our  dreams, 
both  good  and  bad;  happy  sometimes,  sometimes 
tragic  to  weeping  point. 

He  ceased  to  sleep  with  me  the  day  we  discovered 
that  he  was  a  perfect  little  colony,  whose  settlers 
were  of  an  active  species  which  I  have  never  seen 
again.  After  that  he  had  many  beds,  for  circum- 
stance ordained  that  his  life  should  be  nomadic, 
and  it  is  to  this  I  trace  that  philosophic  indiffer- 
ence to  place  or  property,  which  marked  him  out 
from  most  of  his  own  kind.  He  learned  early 
that  for  a  black  dog  with  long  silky  ears,  a  feath- 
ered tail,  and  head  of  great  dignity,  there  was  no 
home  whatsoever,  away  from  those  creatures  with 
special  scents,  who  took  liberties  with  his  name, 
and  alone  of  all  created  things  were  privileged  to 
smack  him  with  a  slipper.  He  would  sleep  any- 
where, so  long  as  it  was  in  their  room,  or  so 
close  outside  it  as  to  make  no  matter,  for  it  was 

143 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

with  him  a  principle  that  what  he  did  not  smell 
did  not  exist.  I  would  I  could  hear  again  those 
long  rubber-lipped  snufflings  of  recognition  under- 
neath the  door,  with  which  each  morning  he  would 
regale  and  reassure  a  spirit  that  grew  with  age 
more  and  more  nervous  and  delicate  about  this 
matter  of  propinquity!  For  he  was  a  dog  of 
fixed  ideas,  things  stamped  on  his  mind  were 
indelible;  as,  for  example,  his  duty  toward  cats, 
for  whom  he  had  really  a  perverse  affection,  which 
had  led  to  that  first  disastrous  moment  of  his  life, 
when  he  was  brought  up,  poor  bewildered  puppy, 
from  a  brief  excursion  to  the  kitchen,  with  one  eye 
closed  and  his  cheek  torn !  He  bore  to  his  grave 
that  jagged  scratch  across  the  eye.  It  was  in 
dread  of  a  repetition  of  this  tragedy  that  he  was 
instructed  at  the  word  "Cats"  to  rush  forward 
with  a  special  "tow-row-rowing,"  which  he  never 
used  toward  any  other  form  of  creature.  To  the 
end  he  cherished  a  hope  that  he  would  reach  the 
cat,  but  never  did;  and  if  he  had,  we  knew  he 
would  only  have  stood  and  wagged  his  tail;  but 
I  well  remember  once,  when  he  returned,  impor- 
tant, from  some  such  sally,  how  dreadfully  my 
companion  startled  a  cat-loving  friend  by  murmur- 
ing in  her  most  honeyed  voice :  "  Well,  my  darling, 
have  you  been  killing  pussies  in  the  garden?  " 

144 


MEMORIES 

His  eye  and  nose  were  impeccable  in  their  sense 
of  form ;  indeed,  he  was  very  English  in  that  matter : 
People  must  be  just  so;  things  smell  properly; 
and  affairs  go  on  in  the  one  right  way.  He  could 
tolerate  neither  creatures  in  ragged  clothes,  nor 
children  on  their  hands  and  knees,  nor  postmen, 
because,  with  their  bags,  they  swelled-up  on 
one  side,  and  carried  lanterns  on  their  stomachs. 
He  would  never  let  the  harmless  creatures  pass 
without  religious  barks.  Naturally  a  believer  in 
authority  and  routine,  and  distrusting  spiritual 
adventure,  he  yet  had  curious  fads  that  seemed 
to  have  nested  in  him,  quite  outside  of  all  prin- 
ciple. He  would,  for  instance,  follow  neither  car- 
riages nor  horses,  and  if  we  tried  to  make  him, 
at  once  left  for  home,  where  he  would  sit  with  nose 
raised  to  Heaven,  emitting  through  it  a  most  lugu- 
brious, shrill  noise.  Then  again,  one  must  not 
place  a  stick,  a  slipper,  a  glove,  or  anything  with 
which  he  could  play,  upon  one's  head — since  such 
an  action  reduced  him  at  once  to  frenzy.  For  so 
conservative  a  dog,  his  environment  was  sadly 
anarchistic.  He  never  complained  in  words  of 
our  shifting  habits,  but  curled  his  head  round  over 
his  left  paw  and  pressed  his  chin  very  hard  against 
the  ground  whenever  he  smelled  packing.  What 
necessity, — he  seemed  continually  to  be  saying,— 

145 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

what  real  necessity  is  there  for  change  of  any  kind 
whatever?  Here  we  were  all  together,  and  one 
day  was  like  another,  so  that  I  knew  where  I  was 
— and  now  you  only  know  what  will  happen  next; 
and  I — I  can't  tell  you  whether  I  shall  be  with  you 
when  it  happens !  What  strange,  grieving  minutes 
a  dog  passes  at  such  times  in  the  underground  of 
his  subconsciousness,  refusing  realisation,  yet  all 
the  time  only  too  well  divining.  Some  careless 
word,  some  unmuted  compassion  in  voice,  the 
stealthy  wrapping  of  a  pair  of  boots,  the  unaccus- 
tomed shutting  of  a  door  that  ought  to  be  open, 
the  removal  from  a  down-stair  room  of  an  object 
always  there — one  tiny  thing,  and  he  knows  for 
certain  that  he  is  not  going  too.  He  fights  against 
the  knowledge  just  as  we  do  against  what  we  can- 
not bear;  he  gives  up  hope,  but  not  effort,  protest- 
ing in  the  only  way  he  knows  of,  and  now  and  then 
heaving  a  great  sigh.  Those  sighs  of  a  dog !  They 
go  to  the  heart  so  much  more  deeply  than  the 
sighs  of  our  own  kind,  because  they  are  utterly 
unintended,  regardless  of  effect,  emerging  from 
one  who,  heaving  them,  knows  not  that  they 
have  escaped  him! 

The  words:  "Yes — going  too !"  spoken  in  a  cer- 
tain tone,  would  call  up  in  his  eyes  a  still-question- 
ing half-happiness,  and  from  his  tail  a  quiet  flutter, 

146 


MEMORIES 

but  did  not  quite  serve  to  put  to  rest  either  his 
doubt  or  his  feeling  that  it  was  all  unnecessary — 
until  the  cab  arrived.  Then  he  would  pour  him- 
self out  of  door  or  window,  and  be  found  in  the 
bottom  of  the  vehicle,  looking  severely  away  from 
an  admiring  cabman.  Once  settled  on  our  feet  he 
travelled  with  philosophy,  but  no  digestion. 

I  think  no  dog  was  ever  more  indifferent  to  an 
outside  world  of  human  creatures;  yet  few  dogs 
have  made  more  conquests — especially  among 
strange  women,  through  whom,  however,  he  had 
a  habit  of  looking — very  discouraging.  He  had, 
natheless,  one  or  two  particular  friends,  such  as 
him  to  whom  this  book  is  dedicated,  and  a  few 
persons  whom  he  knew  he  had  seen  before,  but, 
broadly  speaking,  there  were  in  his  world  of  men, 
only  his  mistress,  and — the  almighty. 

Each  August,  till  he  was  six,  he  was  sent  for 
health,  and  the  assuagement  of  his  hereditary  in- 
stincts, up  to  a  Scotch  shooting,  where  he  carried 
many  birds  in  a  very  tender  manner.  Once  he 
was  compelled  by  Fate  to  remain  there  nearly  a 
year;  and  we  went  up  ourselves  to  fetch  him  home. 
Down  the  long  avenue  toward  the  keeper's  cottage 
we  walked.  It  was  high  autumn;  there  had  been 
frost  already,  for  the  ground  was  fine  with  red  and 
yellow  leaves;  and  presently  we  saw  himself  com- 

147 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

ing,  professionally  questing  among  those  leaves, 
and  preceding  his  dear  keeper  with  the  business- 
like self -containment  of  a  sportsman;  not  too  fat, 
glossy  as  a  raven's  wing,  swinging  his  ears  and 
sporran  like  a  little  Highlander.  We  approached 
him  silently.  Suddenly  his  nose  went  up  from  its 
imagined  trail,  and  he  came  rushing  at  our  legs. 
From  him,  as  a  garment  drops  from  a  man, 
dropped  all  his  strange  soberness;  he  became  in  a 
single  instant  one  fluttering  eagerness.  He  leaped 
from  life  to  life  in  one  bound,  without  hesitation, 
without  regret.  Not  one  sigh,  not  one  look  back, 
not  the  faintest  token  of  gratitude  or  regret  at 
leaving  those  good  people  who  had  tended  him  for 
a  whole  year,  buttered  oat-cake  for  him,  allowed 
him  to  choose  each  night  exactly  where  he  would 
sleep.  No,  he  just  marched  out  beside  us,  as 
close  as  ever  he  could  get,  drawing  us  on  in  spirit, 
and  not  even  attending  to  the  scents,  until  the 
lodge  gates  were  passed. 

It  was  strictly  in  accordance  with  the  perversity 
of  things,  and  something  in  the  nature  of  calamity 
that  he  had  not  been  ours  one  year,  when  there 
came  over  me  a  dreadful  but  overmastering  aver- 
sion from  killing  those  birds  and  creatures  of 
which  he  was  so  fond  as  soon  as  they  were  dead. 
And  so  I  never  knew  him  as  a  sportsman;  for  dur- 

148 


MEMORIES 

ing  that  first  year  he  was  only  an  unbroken  puppy, 
tied  to  my  waist  for  fear  of  accidents,  and  carefully 
pulling  me  off  every  shot.  They  tell  me  he  de- 
veloped a  lovely  nose  and  perfect  mouth,  large 
enough  to  hold  gingerly  the  biggest  hare.  I  well 
believe  it,  remembering  the  qualities  of  his  mother, 
whose  character,  however,  in  stability  he  far  sur- 
passed. But,  as  he  grew  every  year  more  devoted 
to  dead  grouse  and  birds  and  rabbits,  I  liked 
them  more  and  more  alive;  it  was  the  only  real 
breach  between  us,  and  we  kept  it  out  of  sight. 
Ah!  well;  it  is  consoling  to  reflect  that  I  should  in- 
fallibly have  ruined  his  sporting  qualities,  lacking 
that  peculiar  habit  of  meaning  what  one  says,  so 
necessary  to  keep  dogs  virtuous.  But  surely  to 
have  had  him  with  me,  quivering  and  alert,  with 
his  solemn,  eager  face,  would  have  given  a  new 
joy  to  those  crisp  mornings  when  the  hope  of  wings 
coming  to  the  gun  makes  poignant  in  the  sports- 
man as  nothing  else  will,  an  almost  sensual  love 
of  Nature,  a  fierce  delight  in  the  soft  glow  of  leaves, 
in  the  white  birch  stems  and  tracery  of  sparse 
twigs  against  blue  sky,  in  the  scents  of  sap  and 
grass  and  gum  and  heather  flowers;  stivers  the  hair 
of  him  with  keenness  for  interpreting  each  sound, 
and  fills  the  very  fern  or  moss  he  kneels  on,  the 
very  trunk  he  leans  against,  with  strange  vibration. 

149 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

Slowly  Fate  prepares  for  each  of  us  the  religion 
that  lies  coiled  in  our  most  secret  nerves;  with  such 
we  cannot  trifle,  we  do  not  even  try!  But  how 
shall  a  man  grudge  any  one  sensations  he  has  so 
keenly  felt?  Let  such  as  have  never  known  those 
curious  delights,  uphold  the  hand  of  horror — for 
me  there  can  be  no  such  luxury.  If  I  could,  I 
would  still  perhaps  be  knowing  them;  but  when 
once  the  joy  of  life  in  those  winged  and  furry 
things  has  knocked  at  the  very  portals  of  one's 
spirit,  the  thought  that  by  pressing  a  little  iron 
twig  one  will  rive  that  joy  out  of  their  vitals,  is 
too  hard  to  bear.  Call  it  sestheticism,  squeamish- 
ness,  namby-pamby  sentimentalism,  what  you 
will — it  is  stronger  than  oneself! 

Yes,  after  one  had  once  watched  with  an  eye 
that  did  not  merely  see,  the  thirsty  gaping  of  a 
slowly  dying  bird,  or  a  rabbit  dragging  a  broken 
leg  to  a  hole  where  he  would  lie  for  hours  thinking 
of  the  fern  to  which  he  should  never  more  come 
forth — after  that,  there  was  always  the  following 
little  matter  of  arithmetic:  Given,  that  all  those 
who  had  been  shooting  were  "good-fair"  shots — 
which,  Heaven  knew,  they  never  were — they  yet 
missed  one  at  least  in  four,  and  did  not  miss  it 
very  much;  so  that  if  seventy-five  things  were 
slain,  there  were  also  twenty-five  that  had  been 

150 


MEMORIES 

fired  at,  and,  of  those  twenty-five,  twelve  and  a 
half  had  "gotten  it"  somewhere  in  their  bodies, 
and  would  "likely"  die  at  their  great  leisure. 

This  was  the  sum  that  brought  about  the  only 
cleavage  in  our  lives;  and  so,  as  he  grew  older,  and 
trying  to  part  from  each  other  we  no  longer  could, 
he  ceased  going  to  Scotland.  But  after  that  I 
often  felt,  and  especially  when  we  heard  guns,  how 
the  best  and  most  secret  instincts  of  him  were 
being  stifled.  But  what  was  to  be  done?  In  that 
which  was  left  of  a  clay  pigeon  he  would  take  not 
the  faintest  interest — the  scent  of  it  was  paltry. 
Yet  always,  even  in  his  most  cosseted  and  idle 
days,  he  managed  to  preserve  the  grave  preoccu- 
pation of  one  professionally  concerned  with  re- 
trieving things  that  smell;  and  consoled  himself 
with  pastimes  such  as  cricket,  which  he  played  in 
a  manner  highly  specialised,  following  the  ball  up 
the  moment  it  left  the  bowler's  hand,  and  some- 
times retrieving  it  before  it  reached  the  batsman. 
When  remonstrated  with,  he  would  consider  a 
little,  hanging  out  a  pink  tongue  and  looking 
rather  too  eagerly  at  the  ball,  then  canter  slowly 
out  to  a  sort  of  forward  short  leg.  Why  he  always 
chose  that  particular  position  it  is  difficult  to 
say;  possibly  he  could  lurk  there  better  than  any- 
where else,  the  batsman's  eye  not  being  on  him, 

151 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

and  the  bowler's  not  too  much.  As  a  fieldsman 
he  was  perfect,  but  for  an  occasional  belief  that 
he  was  not  merely  short  leg,  but  slip,  point,  mid- 
off,  and  wicket-keep;  and  perhaps  a  tendency  to 
make  the  ball  a  little  "jubey."  But  he  worked 
tremendously,  watching  every  movement;  for  he 
knew  the  game  thoroughly,  and  seldom  delayed  it 
more  than  three  minutes  when  he  secured  the  ball. 
And  if  that  ball  were  really  lost,  then  indeed  he 
took  over  the  proceedings  with  an  intensity  and 
quiet  vigour  that  destroyed  many  shrubs,  and  the 
solemn  satisfaction  which  comes  from  being  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  stage. 

But  his  most  passionate  delight  was  swimming 
in  anything  except  the  sea,  for  which,  with  its  un- 
pleasant noise  and  habit  of  tasting  salt,  he  had 
little  affection.  I  see  him  now,  cleaving  the  Ser- 
pentine, with  his  air  of  "the  world  well  lost," 
striving  to  reach  my  stick  before  it  had  touched 
water.  Being  only  a  large  spaniel,  too  small  for 
mere  heroism,  he  saved  no  lives  in  the  water  but 
his  own — and  that,  on  one  occasion,  before  our 
very  eyes,  from  a  dark  trout  stream,  which  was 
trying  to  wash  him  down  into  a  black  hole  among 
the  boulders. 

The  call  of  the  wild — Spring  running — whatever 
it  is — that  besets  men  and  dogs,  seldom  attained 

152 


MEMORIES 

full  mastery  over  him;  but  one  could  often  see  it 
struggling  against  his  devotion  to  the  scent  of  us, 
and,  watching  that  dumb  contest,  I  have  time 
and  again  wondered  how  far  this  civilisation  of  ours 
was  justifiably  imposed  on  him;  how  far  the  love 
for  us  that  we  had  so  carefully  implanted  could 
ever  replace  in  him  the  satisfaction  of  his  primitive 
wild  yearnings.  He  was  like  a  man,  naturally 
polygamous,  married  to  one  loved  woman. 

It  was  surely  not  for  nothing  that  Rover  is  dog's 
most  common  name,  and  would  be  ours,  but  for 
our  too  tenacious  fear  of  losing  something,  to  ad- 
mit, even  to  ourselves,  that  we  are  hankering. 
There  was  a  man  who  said:  Strange  that  two  such 
queerly  opposite  qualities  as  courage  and  hypoc- 
risy are  the  leading  characteristics  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon!  But  is  not  hypocrisy  just  a  product  of 
tenacity,  which  is  again  the  lower  part  of  courage? 
Is  not  hypocrisy  but  an  active  sense  of  property 
in  one's  good  name,  the  clutching  close  of  respecta- 
bility at  any  price,  the  feeling  that  one  must  not 
part,  even  at  the  cost  of  truth,  with  what  he  has 
sweated  so  to  gain?  And  so  we  Anglo-Saxons  will 
not  answer  to  the  name  of  Rover,  and  treat  our 
dogs  so  that  they,  too,  hardly  know  their  natures. 

The  history  of  his  one  wandering,  for  which  no 
respectable  reason  can  be  assigned,  will  never,  of 

153 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

course,  be  known.  It  was  in  London,  of  an  Octo- 
ber evening,  when  we  were  told  he  had  slipped  out 
and  was  not  anywhere.  Then  began  those  four 
distressful  hours  of  searching  for  that  black  needle 
in  that  blacker  bundle  of  hay.  Hours  of  real  dis- 
may and  suffering — for  it  is  suffering,  indeed,  to 
feel  a  loved  thing  swallowed  up  in  that  hopeless 
maze  of  London  streets.  Stolen  or  run  over? 
Which  was  worst?  The  neighbouring  police  sta- 
tions visited,  the  Dog's  Home  notified,  an  order 
for  five  hundred  "Lost  Dog"  bills  placed  in  the 
printer's  hands,  the  streets  patrolled!  And  then, 
in  a  lull  snatched  for  food,  and  still  endeavouring 
to  preserve  some  aspect  of  assurance,  we  heard 
the  bark  which  meant:  "Here  is  a  door  I  cannot 
open!"  We  hurried  forth,  and  there  he  was  on 
the  top  doorstep — busy,  unashamed,  giving  no 
explanations,  asking  for  his  supper;  and  very 
shortly  after  him  came  his  five  hundred  "Lost 
Dog"  bills.  Long  I  sat  looking  at  him  that  night 
after  my  companion  had  gone  up,  thinking  of  the 
evening,  some  years  before,  when  there  followed 
us  that  shadow  of  a  spaniel  who  had  been  lost  for 
eleven  days.  And  my  heart  turned  over  within  me. 
But  he!  He  was  asleep,  for  he  knew  not  remorse. 
Ah!  and  there  was  that  other  time,  when  it  was 
reported  to  me,  returning  home  at  night,  that  he 

154 


MEMORIES 

had  gone  out  to  find  me;  and  I  went  forth  again, 
disturbed,  and  whistling  his  special  call  to  the 
empty  fields.  Suddenly  out  of  the  darkness  I 
heard  a  rushing,  and  he  came  furiously  dashing 
against  my  heels  from  he  alone  knew  where  he  had 
been  lurking  and  saying  to  himself:  I  will  not  go 
in  till  he  comes!  I  could  not  scold,  there  was 
something  too  lyrical  in  the  return  of  that  live, 
lonely,  rushing  piece  of  blackness  through  the 
blacker  night.  After  all,  the  vagary  was  but  a 
variation  in  his  practice  when  one  was  away  at 
bed-time,  of  passionately  scratching  up  his  bed 
in  protest,  till  it  resembled  nothing;  for,  in  spite 
of  his  long  and  solemn  face  and  the  silkiness  of 
his  ears,  there  was  much  in  him  yet  of  the  cave 
bear — he  dug  graves  on  the  smallest  provocations, 
in  which  he  never  buried  anything.  He  was  not 
a  "clever"  dog;  and  guiltless  of  all  tricks.  Nor 
was  he  ever  "shown. "  We  did  not  even  dream  of 
subjecting  him  to  this  indignity.  Was  our  dog 
a  clown,  a  hobby,  a  fad,  a  fashion,  a  feather  in  our 
caps — that  we  should  subject  him  to  periodic 
pennings  in  stuffy  halls,  that  we  should  harry  his 
faithful  soul  with  such  tomfoolery?  He  never 
even  heard  us  talk  about  his  lineage,  deplore  the 
length  of  his  nose,  or  call  him  "clever-looking." 
We  should  have  been  ashamed  to  let  him  smell 

155 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

about  us  the  tar-brush  of  a  sense  of  property,  to 
let  him  think  we  looked  on  him  as  an  asset  to  earn 
us  pelf  or  glory.  We  wished  that  there  should  be 
between  us  the  spirit  that  was  between  the  sheep- 
dog and  that  farmer,  who,  when  asked  his  dog's 
age,  touched  the  old  creature's  head,  and  answered 
thus:  "Teresa"  (his  daughter)  "was  born  in 
November,  and  this  one  in  August. "  That  sheep- 
dog had  seen  eighteen  years  when  the  great  white 
day  came  for  him,  and  his  spirit  passed  away  up, 
to  cling  with  the  wood-smoke  round  the  dark 
rafters  of  the  kitchen  where  he  had  lain  so  vast 
a  time  beside  his  master's  boots.  No,  no!  If 
a  man  does  not  soon  pass  beyond  the  thought: 
"By  what  shall  this  dog  profit  me?"  into  the  large 
state  of  simple  gladness  to  be  with  dog,  he  shall 
never  know  the  very  essence  of  that  companion- 
ship which  depends  not  on  the  points  of  dog,  but 
on  some  strange  and  subtle  mingling  of  mute 
spirits.  For  it  is  by  muteness  that  a  dog  becomes 
for  one  so  utterly  beyond  value;  with  him  one  is 
at  peace,  where  words  play  no  torturing  tricks. 
When  he  just  sits,  loving,  and  knows  that  he  is 
being  loved,  those  are  the  moments  that  I  think  are 
precious  to  a  dog;  when,  with  his  adoring  soul 
coming  through  his  eyes,  he  feels  that  you  are 
really  thinking  of  him.  But  he  is  touchingly 

156 


MEMORIES 

tolerant  of  one's  other  occupations.  The  subject 
of  these  memories  always  knew  when  one  was  too 
absorbed  in  work  to  be  so  close  to  him  as  he 
thought  proper;  yet  he  never  tried  to  hinder  or 
distract,  or  asked  for  attention.  It  dinged  his 
mood,  of  course,  so  that  the  red  under  his  eyes  and 
the  folds  of  his  crumply  cheeks — which  seemed  to 
speak  of  a  touch  of  bloodhound  introduced  a 
long  way  back  into  his  breeding — grew  deeper  and 
more  manifest.  If  he  could  have  spoken  at  such 
times,  he  would  have  said:  "I  have  been  a  long 
time  alone,  and  I  cannot  always  be  asleep;  but 
you  know  best,  and  I  must  not  criticise. " 

He  did  not  at  all  mind  one's  being  absorbed  in 
other  humans;  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  sounds  of 
conversation  lifting  round  him,  and  to  know  when 
they  were  sensible.  He  could  not,  for  instance, 
stand  actors  or  actresses  giving  readings  of  their 
parts,  perceiving  at  once  that  the  same  had  no 
connection  with  the  minds  and  real  feelings  of 
the  speakers;  and,  having  wandered  a  little  to 
show  his  disapproval,  he  would  go  to  the  door  and 
stare  at  it  till  it  opened  and  let  him  out.  Once 
or  twice,  it  is  true,  when  an  actor  of  large  voice 
was  declaiming  an  emotional  passage,  he  so  far 
relented  as  to  go  up  to  him  and  pant  in  his  face. 
Music,  too,  made  him  restless,  inclined  to  sigh,  and 

157 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

to  ask  questions.  Sometimes,  at  its  first  sound, 
he  would  cross  to  the  window  and  remain  there 
looking  for  Her.  At  others,  he  would  simply  go 
and  lie  on  the  loud  pedal,  and  we  never  could  tell 
whether  it  was  from  sentiment,  or  because  he 
thought  that  in  this  way  he  heard  less.  At  one 
special  Nocturne  of  Chopin's  he  always  whim- 
pered. He  was,  indeed,  of  rather  Polish  tempera- 
ment— very  gay  when  he  was  gay,  dark  and 
brooding  when  he  was  not. 

On  the  whole,  perhaps  his  life  was  uneventful 
for  so  far-travelling  a  dog,  though  it  held  its  mo- 
ments of  eccentricity,  as  when  he  leaped  through 
the  window  of  a  four-wheeler  into  Kensington,  or 
sat  on  a  Dartmoor  adder.  But  that  was  fortu- 
nately of  a  Sunday  afternoon — when  adder  and  all 
were  torpid,  so  nothing  happened,  till  a  friend, 
who  was  following,  lifted  him  off  the  creature  with 
his  large  boot. 

If  only  one  could  have  known  more  of  his  private 
life — more  of  his  relations  with  his  own  kind! 
I  fancy  he  was  always  rather  a  dark  dog  to  them, 
having  so  many  thoughts  about  us  that  he  could 
not  share  with  any  one,  and  being  naturally  fas- 
tidious, except  with  ladies,  for  whom  he  had  a 
chivalrous  and  catholic  taste,  so  that  they  often 
turned  and  snapped  at  him.  He  had,  however, 

158 


MEMORIES 

but  one  lasting  love  affair,  for  a  liver-coloured 
lass  of  our  village,  not  quite  of  his  own  caste,  but 
a  wholesome  if  somewhat  elderly  girl,  with  loving 
and  sphinx-like  eyes.  Their  children,  alas,  were 
not  for  this  world,  and  soon  departed. 

Nor  was  he  a  fighting  dog;  but  once  attacked, 
he  lacked  a  sense  of  values,  being  unable  to  dis- 
tinguish between  dogs  that  he  could  beat  and  dogs 
with  whom  he  had  "no  earthly."  It  was,  in  fact, 
as  well  to  interfere  at  once,  especially  in  the  matter 
of  retrievers,  for  he  never  forgot  having  in  his 
youth  been  attacked  by  a  retriever  from  behind. 
No,  he  never  forgot,  and  never  forgave,  an  enemy. 
Only  a  month  before  that  day  of  which  I  cannot 
speak,  being  very  old  and  ill,  he  engaged  an  Irish 
terrier  on  whose  impudence  he  had  long  had  his 
eye,  and  routed  him.  And  how  a  battle  cheered 
his  spirit!  He  was  certainly  no  Christian;  but, 
allowing  for  essential  dog,  he  was  very  much  a 
gentleman.  And  I  do  think  that  most  of  us  who 
live  on  this  earth  these  days  would  rather  leave  it 
with  that  label  on  us  than  the  other.  For  to  be  a 
Christian,  as  Tolstoy  understood  the  word — and 
no  one  else  in  our  time  has  had  logic  and  love  of 
truth  enough  to  give  it  coherent  meaning — is 
(to  be  quite  sincere)  not  suited  to  men  of  Western 
blood.  Whereas — to  be  a  gentleman!  It  is  a  far 

159 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

cry,  but  perhaps  it  can  be  done.  In  him;  at  all 
events,  there  was  no  pettiness,  no  meanness,  and 
no  cruelty,  and  though  he  fell  below  his  ideal  at 
times,  this  never  altered  the  true  look  of  his  eyes, 
nor  the  simple  loyalty  in  his  soul. 

But  what  a  crowd  of  memories  come  back, 
bringing  with  them  the  perfume  of  fallen  days! 
What  delights  and  glamour,  what  long  hours  of 
effort,  discouragements,  and  secret  fears  did  he 
not  watch  over — our  black  familiar;  and  with  the 
sight  and  scent  and  touch  of  him,  deepen  or  as- 
suage! How  many  thousand  walks  did  we  not  go 
together,  so  that  we  still  turn  to  see  if  he  is  follow- 
ing at  his  padding  gait,  attentive  to  the  invisible 
trails.  Not  the  least  hard  thing  to  bear  when  they 
go  from  us,  these  quiet  friends,  is  that  they  carry 
away  with  them  so  many  years  of  our  own  lives. 
Yet,  if  they  find  warmth  therein,  who  would 
grudge  them  those  years  that  they  have  so 
guarded?  Nothing  else  of  us  can  they  take  to 
lie  upon  with  outstretched  paws  and  chin  pressed 
to  the  ground;  and,  whatever  they  take,  be  sure 
they  have  deserved. 

Do  they  know,  as  we  do,  that  their  time  must 
come?  Yes,  they  know,  at  rare  moments.  No 
other  way  can  I  interpret  those  pauses  of  his  latter 
life,  when,  propped  on  his  forefeet,  he  would  sit  for 

160 


MEMORIES 

long  minutes  quite  motionless— his  head  drooped, 
utterly  withdrawn;  then  turn  those  eyes  of  his 
and  look  at  me.  That  look  said  more  plainly 
than  all  words  could:  "Yes,  I  know  that  I  must 
go!"  If  we  have  spirits  that  persist — they  have. 
If  we  know  after  our  departure,  who  we  were — 
they  do.  No  one,  I  think,  who  really  longs  for 
truth,  can  ever  glibly  say  which  it  will  be  for  dog 
and  man — persistence  or  extinction  of  our  con- 
sciousness. There  is  but  one  thing  certain — the 
childishness  of  fretting  over  that  eternal  question. 
Whichever  it  be,  it  must  be  right,  the  only  possible 
thing.  He  felt  that  too,  I  know;  but  then,  like 
his  master,  he  was  what  is  called  a  pessimist. 

My  companion  tells  me  that,  since  he  left  us, 
he  has  once  come  back.  It  was  Old  Year's  Night, 
and  she  was  sad,  when  he  came  to  her  in  visible 
shape  of  his  black  body,  passing  round  the  dining- 
table  from  the  window-end,  to  his  proper  place  be- 
neath the  table,  at  her  feet.  She  saw  him  quite 
clearly;  she  heard  the  padding  tap-tap  of  his  paws 
and  very  toe-nails;  she  felt  his  warmth  brushing 
hard  against  the  front  of  her  skirt.  She  thought 
then  that  he  would  settle  down  upon  her  feet,  but 
something  disturbed  him,  and  he  stood  pausing, 
pressed  against  her,  then  moved  out  toward  where 
I  generally  sit,  but  was  not  sitting  that  night. 

161 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

She  saw  him  stand  there,  as  if  considering;  then 
at  some  sound  or  laugh,  she  became  self-conscious, 
and  slowly,  very  slowly,  he  was  no  longer  there. 
Had  he  some  message,  some  counsel  to  give,  some- 
thing he  would  say,  that  last  night  of  the  last  year 
of  all  those  he  had  watched  over  us?  Will  he 
come  back  again? 

No  stone  stands  over  where  he  lies.    It  is  on 
our  hearts  that  his  life  is  engraved. 

1912. 


162 


FELICITY 

TT  THEN  God  is  so  good  to  the  fields,  of  what 
V  V  use  are  words — those  poor  husks  of  senti- 
ment! There  is  no  painting  Felicity  on  the  wing! 
No  way  of  bringing  on  to  the  canvas  the  flying 
glory  of  things!  A  single  buttercup  of  the  twenty 
million  in  one  field  is  worth  all  these  dry  symbols 
— that  can  never  body  forth  the  very  spirit  of 
that  froth  of  May  breaking  over  the  hedges,  the 
choir  of  birds  and  bees,  the  lost-travelling  down  of 
the  wind-flowers,  the  white-throated  swallows  in 
their  Odysseys.  Just  here  there  are  no  skylarks, 
but  what  joy  of  song  and  leaf;  of  lanes  lighted 
with  bright  trees,  the  few  oaks  still  golden  brown, 
and  the  ashes  still  spiritual!  Only  the  blackbirds 
and  thrushes  can  sing-up  this  day,  and  cuckoos 
over  the  hill.  The  year  has  flown  so  fast  that  the 
apple-trees  have  dropped  nearly  all  their  bloom, 
and  in  "long  meadow"  the  "daggers"  are  out 
early,  beside  the  narrow  bright  streams.  Orpheus 
sits  there  on  a  stone,  when  nobody  is  by,  and  pipes 
to  the  ponies;  and  Pan  can  often  be  seen  danc- 
ing with  his  nymphs  in  the  raised  beech-grove 

163 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

where  it  is  always  twilight,  if  you  lie  still  enough 
against  the  far  bank. 

Who  can  believe  in  growing  old,  so  long  as  we 
are  wrapped  in  this  cloak  of  colour  and  wings  and 
song;  so  long  as  this  unimaginable  vision  is  here 
for  us  to  gaze  at — the  soft-faced  sheep  about  us, 
and  the  wool-bags  drying  out  along  the  fence,  and 
great  numbers  of  tiny  ducks,  so  trustful  that  the 
crows  have  taken  several. 

Blue  is  the  colour  of  youth,  and  all  the  blue 
flowers  have  a  "fey"  look.  Everything  seems 
young — too  young  to  work.  There  is  but  one 
thing  busy,  a  starling,  fetching  grubs  for  its  little 
family,  above  my  head — it  must  take  that  flight 
at  least  two  hundred  times  a  day.  The  children 
should  be  very  fat. 

When  the  sky  is  so  happy,  and  the  flowers  so 
luminous,  it  does  not  seem  possible  that  the  bright 
angels  of  this  day  shall  pass  into  dark  night,  that 
slowly  these  wings  shall  close,  and  the  cuckoo 
praise  himself  to  sleep,  mad  midges  dance-in  the 
evening;  the  grass  shiver  with  dew,  wind  die,  and 
no  bird  sing.  .  .  . 

Yet  so  it  is.  Day  has  gone — the  song  and  glam- 
our and  swoop  of  wings.  Slowly  has  passed  the 
daily  miracle.  It  is  night.  But  Felicity  has  not 
withdrawn;  she  has  but  changed  her  robe  for 

164 


FELICITY 

silence,  velvet,  and  the  pearl  fan  of  the  moon. 
Everything  is  sleeping,  save  only  a  single  star,  and 
the  pansies.  Why  they  should  be  more  wakeful 
than  the  other  flowers,  I  do  not  know.  The  ex- 
pressions of  their  faces,  if  one  bends  down  into  the 
dusk,  are  sweeter  and  more  cunning  than  ever. 
They  have  some  compact,  no  doubt,  in  hand. 

What  a  number  of  voices  have  given  up  the 
ghost  to  this  night  of  but  one  voice — the  murmur 
of  the  stream  out  there  hi  darkness! 

With  what  religion  all  has  been  done!  Not  one 
buttercup  open;  the  yew-trees  already  with  shad- 
ows flung  down!  No  moths  are  abroad  yet;  it 
is  too  early  in  the  year  for  nightjars;  and  the  owls 
are  quiet.  But  who  shall  say  that  in  this  silence, 
in  this  hovering  wan  light,  in  this  air  bereft  of 
wings,  and  of  all  scent  save  freshness,  there  is  less 
of  the  ineffable,  less  of  that  before  which  words  are 
dumb? 

It  is  strange  how  this  tranquillity  of  night,  that 
seems  so  final,  is  inhabited,  if  one  keeps  still 
enough.  A  lamb  is  bleating  out  there  on  the  dim 
moor;  a  bird  somewhere,  a  little  one,  about  three 
fields  away,  makes  the  sweetest  kind  of  chirrup- 
ing; some  cows  are  still  cropping.  There  is  a 
scent,  too,  underneath  the  freshness — sweet-brier, 
I  think,  and  our  Dutch  honeysuckle;  nothing  else 

165 


CONCERNING  LIFE 

could  so  delicately  twine  itself  with  air.  And  even 
in  this  darkness  the  roses  have  colour,  more  beauti- 
ful perhaps  than  ever.  If  colour  be,  as  they  say, 
but  the  effect  of  light  on  various  fibre,  one  may 
think  of  it  as  a  tune,  the  song  of  thanksgiving  that 
each  form  puts  forth,  to  sun  and  moon  and  stars 
and  fire.  These  moon-coloured  roses  are  singing 
a  most  quiet  song.  I  see  all  of  a  sudden  that 
there  are  many  more  stars  beside  that  one  so  red 
and  watchful.  The  flown  kite  is  there  with  its 
seven  pale  worlds;  it  has  adventured  very  high 
and  far  to-night — with  a  company  of  others  re- 
moter still. 

This  serenity  of  night!  What  could  seem  less 
likely  ever  more  to  move,  and  change  again  to 
day?  Surely  now  the  world  has  found  its  long 
sleep;  and  the  pearly  glimmer  from  the  moon  will 
last,  and  the  precious  silence  never  again  yield 
to  clamour;  the  grape-bloom  of  this  mystery  never 
more  pale  out  into  gold.  .  .  . 

And  yet  it  is  not  so.  The  nightly  miracle  has 
passed.  It  is  dawn.  Faint  light  has  come.  I 
am  waiting  for  the  first  sound.  The  sky  as  yet 
is  like  nothing  but  grey  paper,  with  the  shadows 
of  wild  geese  passing.  The  trees  are  phantoms. 
And  then  it  comes — that  first  call  of  a  bird, 
startled  at  discovering  day!  Just  one  call — and 

166 


FELICITY 

now,  here,  there,  on  all  the  trees,  the  sudden  an- 
swers swelling,  of  that  most  sweet  and  careless 
choir.  Was  irresponsibility  ever  so  divine  as 
this,  of  birds  waking?  Then — saffron  into  the 
sky,  and  once  more  silence!  What  is  it  birds  do 
after  the  first  Chorale?  Think  of  their  sins  and 
business?  Or  just  sleep  again?  The  trees  are 
fast  dropping  unreality,  and  the  cuckoos  begin 
calling.  Colour  is  burning  up  in  the  flowers  al- 
ready; the  dew  smells  of  them. 

The  miracle  is  ended,  for  the  starling  has  begun 
its  job;  and  the  sun  is  fretting  those  dark,  busy 
wings  with  gold.  Full  day  has  come  again.  But 
the  face  of  it  is  a  little  strange,  it  is  not  like  yester- 
day. Queer — to  think,  no  day  is  like  to  a  day 
that's  past  and  no  night  like  a  night  that's  coming! 
Why,  then,  fear  death,  which  is  but  night?  Why 
care,  if  next  day  have  different  face  and  spirit? 

The  sun  has  lighted  buttercup-field  now,  the 
wind  touches  the  lime-tree.  Something  passes 
over  me  away  up  there. 

It  is  Felicity  on  her  wings! 

1912. 


167 


CONCERNING   LETTERS 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

ONCE  upon  a  time  the  Prince  of  Felicitas  had 
occasion  to  set  forth  on  a  journey.  It  was 
a  late  autumn  evening  with  few  pale  stars  and  a 
moon  no  larger  than  the  paring  of  a  finger-nail. 
And  as  he  rode  through  the  purlieus  of  his  city, 
the  white  mane  of  his  amber-coloured  steed  was  all 
that  he  could  clearly  see  in  the  dusk  of  the  high 
streets.  His  way  led  through  a  quarter  but  little 
known  to  him,  and  he  was  surprised  to  find  that 
his  horse,  instead  of  ambling  forward  with  his 
customary  gentle  vigour,  stepped  carefully  from 
side  to  side,  stopping  now  and  then  to  curve  his 
neck  and  prick  his  ears — as  though  at  some  thing 
of  fear  unseen  in  the  darkness;  while  on  either 
hand  creatures  could  be  heard  rustling  and  scut- 
tling, and  little  cold  draughts  as  of  wings  fanned 
the  rider's  cheeks. 

The  Prince  at  last  turned  in  his  saddle,  but  so 
great  was  the  darkness  that  he  could  not  even  see 
his  escort. 

"What  is  the  name  of  this  street?"  he  said. 

"Sire,  it  is  called  the  Vita  Publica. " 
171 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

"It  is  very  dark."  Even  as  he  spoke  his  horse 
staggered,  but,  recovering  its  foothold  with  an 
effort,  stood  trembling  violently.  Nor  could  all 
the  incitements  of  its  master  induce  the  beast 
again  to  move  forward. 

"  Is  there  no  one  with  a  lanthorn  in  this  street?  " 
asked  the  Prince. 

His  attendants  began  forthwith  to  call  out  loudly 
for  any  one  who  had  a  lanthorn.  Now,  it  chanced 
that  an  old  man  sleeping  in  a  hovel  on  a  pallet  of 
straw  was  awakened  by  these  cries.  When  he 
heard  that  it  was  the  Prince  of  Felicitas  himself, 
he  came  hastily,  carrying  his  lanthorn,  and  stood 
trembling  beside  the  Prince's  horse.  It  was  so 
dark  that  the  Prince  could  not  see  him. 

"Light  your  lanthorn,  old  man,"  he  said. 

The  old  man  laboriously  lit  his  lanthorn.  Its 
pale  rays  fled  out  on  either  hand;  beautiful  but 
grim  was  the  vision  they  disclosed.  Tall  houses, 
fair  court-yards,  and  a  palm-grown  garden;  in 
front  of  the  Prince's  horse  a  deep  cesspool,  on 
whose  jagged  edges  the  good  beast's  hoofs  were 
planted;  and,  as  far  as  the  glimmer  of  the  lanthorn 
stretched,  both  ways  down  the  rutted  street,  pav- 
ing stones  displaced,  and  smooth  tesselated  mar- 
ble; pools  of  mud,  the  hanging  fruit  of  an  orange- 
tree,  and  dark,  scurrying  shapes  of  monstrous  rats 

172 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

bolting  across  from  house  to  house.  The  old  man 
held  the  lanthorn  higher;  and  instantly  bats  flying 
against  it  would  have  beaten  out  the  light  but  for 
the  thin  protection  of  its  horn  sides. 

The  Prince  sat  still  upon  his  horse,  looking  first 
at  the  rutted  space  that  he  had  traversed  and  then 
at  the  rutted  space  before  him. 

"Without  a  light,"  he  said,  "this  thoroughfare 
is  dangerous.  What  is  your  name,  old  man?" 

"My  name  is  Cethru,"  replied  the  aged  churl. 

"Cethru!"  said  the  Prince.  "Let  it  be  your 
duty  henceforth  to  walk  with  your  lanthorn  up 
and  down  this  street  all  night  and  every  night," 
— and  he  looked  at  Cethru:  "Do  you  understand, 
old  man,  what  it  is  you  have  to  do?" 

The  old  man  answered  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
like  a  rusty  flute: 

"Aye,  aye! — to  walk  up  and  down  and  hold 
my  lanthorn  so  that  folk  can  see  where  they  be 
goin'." 

The  Prince  gathered  up  his  reins;  but  the  old 
man,  lurching  forward,  touched  his  stirrup. 

"How  long  be  I  to  go  on  wi'  thiccy  job?" 

"Until  you  die!" 

Cethru  held  up  his  lanthorn,  and  they  could  see 
his  long,  thin  face,  like  a  sandwich  of  dried  leather, 
jerk  and  quiver,  and  his  thin  grey  hairs  flutter  in 

173 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

the  draught  of  the  bats'  wings  circling  round  the 
light. 

"Twill  be  main  hard!"  he  groaned;  "an'  my 
lanthorn's  nowt  but  a  poor  thing. " 

With  a  high  look,  the  Prince  of  Felicitas  bent 
and  touched  the  old  man's  forehead. 

"Until  you  die,  old  man,"  he  repeated;  and 
bidding  his  followers  to  light  torches  from  Cethru's 
lanthorn,  he  rode  on  down  the  twisting  street. 
The  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  died  out  in  the 
night,  and  the  scuttling  and  the  rustling  of  the 
rats  and  the  whispers  of  the  bats'  wings  were 
heard  again. 

Cethru,  left  alone  in  the  dark  thoroughfare, 
sighed  heavily;  then,  spitting  on  his  hands,  he 
tightened  the  old  girdle  round  his  loins,  and  sling- 
ing the  lanthorn  on  his  staff,  held  it  up  to  the  level 
of  his  waist,  and  began  to  make  his  way  along  the 
street.  His  progress  was  but  slow,  for  he  had 
many  times  to  stop  and  rekindle  the  flame  within 
his  lanthorn,  which  the  bats'  wings,  his  own  stum- 
bles, and  the  jostlings  of  footpads  or  of  revellers 
returning  home,  were  for  ever  extinguishing.  In 
traversing  that  long  street  he  spent  half  the  night, 
and  half  the  night  in  traversing  it  back  again. 
The  saffron  swan  of  dawn,  slow  swimming  up  the 
sky-river  between  the  high  roof-banks,  bent  her 

174 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

neck  down  through  the  dark  air-water  to  look  at 
him  staggering  below  her,  with  his  still  smoking 
wick.  No  sooner  did  Cethru  see  that  sunlit  bird, 
than  with  a  great  sigh  of  joy  he  sat  him  down,  and 
at  once  fell  asleep. 

Now  when  the  dwellers  in  the  houses  of  the  Vita 
Publica  first  gained  knowledge  that  this  old  man 
passed  every  night  with  his  lanthorn  up  and  down 
their  street,  and  when  they  marked  those  pallid 
gleams  gliding  over  the  motley  prospect  of  cess- 
pools and  garden  gates,  over  the  sightless  hovels 
and  the  rich-carved  frontages  of  their  palaces;  or 
saw  them  stay  their  journey  and  remain  suspended 
like  a  handful  of  daffodils  held  up  against  the  black 
stuffs  of  secrecy — they  said: 

"It  is  good  that  the  old  man  should  pass  like 
this — we  shall  see  better  where  we're  going;  and 
if  the  Watch  have  any  job  on  hand,  or  want  to 
put  the  pavements  in  order,  his  lanthorn  will 
serve  their  purpose  well  enough."  And  they 
would  call  out  of  their  doors  and  windows  to  him 
passing : 

"Hola!  old  man  Cethru!  All's  well  with  our 
house,  and  with  the  street  before  it?" 

But,  for  answer,  the  old  man  only  held  his  lan- 
thorn up,  so  that  in  the  ring  of  its  pale  light  they 
saw  some  sight  or  other  in  the  street.  And  his 

175 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

silence  troubled  them,  one  by  one,  for  each  had 
expected  that  he  would  reply: 

"Aye,  aye!  All's  well  with  your  house,  Sirs, 
and  with  the  street  before  it!" 

Thus  they  grew  irritated  with  this  old  man  who 
did  not  seem  able  to  do  anything  but  just  hold  his 
lanthorn  up.  And  gradually  they  began  to  dis- 
like his  passing  by  their  doors  with  his  pale  light, 
by  which  they  could  not  fail  to  see,  not  only  the 
rich-carved  frontages  and  scrolled  gates  of  court- 
yards and  fair  gardens,  but  things  that  were  not 
pleasing  to  the  eye.  And  they  murmured  amongst 
themselves:  "What  is  the  good  of  this  old  man 
and  his  silly  lanthorn?  We  can  see  all  we  want 
to  see  without  him;  in  fact,  we  got  on  very  well 
before  he  came.77 

So,  as  he  passed,  rich  folk  who  were  supping 
would  pelt  him  with  orange-peel  and  empty  the 
dregs  of  their  wine  over  his  head;  and  poor  folk, 
sleeping  in  their  hutches,  turned  over,  as  the  rays 
of  the  lanthorn  fell  on  them,  and  cursed  him  for 
that  disturbance.  Nor  did  revellers  or  footpads 
treat  the  old  man  civilly,  but  tied  him  to  the  wall, 
where  he  was  constrained  to  stay  till  a  kind  passer- 
by released  him.  And  ever  the  bats  darkened  his 
lanthorn  with  their  wings  and  tried  to  beat  the 
flame  out.  And  the  old  man  thought :  "This  be  a 

176 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

terrible  hard  job;  I  don't  seem  to  please  nobody. " 
But  because  the  Prince  of  Felicitas  had  so  com- 
manded him,  he  continued  nightly  to  pass  with 
his  lanthorn  up  and  down  the  street;  and  every 
morning  as  the  saffron  swan  came  swimming  over- 
head, to  fall  asleep.  But  his  sleep  did  not  last 
long,  for  he  was  compelled  to  pass  many  hours  each 
day  in  gathering  rushes  and  melting  down  tallow 
for  his  lanthorn;  so  that  his  lean  face  grew  more 
than  ever  like  a  sandwich  of  dried  leather. 

Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Town  Watch  hav- 
ing had  certain  complaints  made  to  them  that  per- 
sons had  been  bitten  in  the  Vita  Publica  by  rats, 
doubted  of  their  duty  to  destroy  these  ferocious 
creatures;  and  they  held  investigation,  summon- 
ing the  persons  bitten  and  inquiring  of  them  how 
it  was  that  in  so  dark  a  street  they  could  tell  that 
the  animals  which  had  bitten  them  were  indeed 
rats.  Howbeit  for  some  time  no  one  could  be 
found  who  could  say  more  than  what  he  had  been 
told,  and  since  this  was  not  evidence,  the  Town 
Watch  had  good  hopes  that  they  would  not  after 
all  be  forced  to  undertake  this  tedious  enterprise. 
But  presently  there  came  before  them  one  who 
said  that  he  had  himself  seen  the  rat  which  had 
bitten  him,  by  the  light  of  an  old  man's  lanthorn. 
When  the  Town  Watch  heard  this  they  were  vexed, 

177 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

for  they  knew  that  if  this  were  true  they  would 
now  be  forced  to  prosecute  the  arduous  undertak- 
ing, and  they  said: 

"Bring  in  this  old  man!" 

Cethru  was  brought  before  them  trembling. 

"What  is  this  we  hear,  old  man,  about  your 
lanthorn  and  the  rat?  And  in  the  first  place,  what 
were  you  doing  in  the  Vita  Publica  at  that  time 
of  night?" 

Cethru  answered:  "I  were  just  passin'  with  my 
lanthorn!" 

"Tell  us— did  you  see  the  rat?" 

Cethru  shook  his  head:  "My  lanthorn  seed  the 
rat,  maybe!"  he  muttered. 

"Old  owl!"  said  the  Captain  of  the  Watch: 
"Be  careful  what  you  say!  If  you  saw  the  rat, 
why  did  you  then  not  aid  this  unhappy  citizen 
who  was  bitten  by  it — first,  to  avoid  that  rodent, 
and  subsequently  to  slay  it,  thereby  relieving  the 
public  of  a  pestilential  danger?" 

Cethru  looked  at  him,  and  for  some  seconds  did 
not  reply;  then  he  said  slowly:  "I  were  just 
passin'  with  my  lanthorn." 

"That  you  have  already  told  us,"  said  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  Watch;  " it  is  no  answer. " 

Cethru's  leathern  cheeks  became  wine-coloured, 
so  desirous  was  he  to  speak,  and  so  unable.  And 

178 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

the  Watch  sneered  and  laughed,  saying:  "This 
is  a  fine  witness. " 

But  of  a  sudden  Cethru  spoke: 

"What  would  I  be  duin' — killin'  rats;  tidden 
my  business  to  kill  rats." 

The  Captain  of  the  Watch  caressed  his  beard, 
and  looking  at  the  old  man  with  contempt,  said: 

"It  seems  to  me,  brothers,  that  this  is  an  idle 
old  vagabond,  who  does  no  good  to  any  one.  We 
should  be  well  advised,  I  think,  to  prosecute  him 
for  vagrancy.  But  that  is  not  at  this  moment  the 
matter  in  hand.  Owing  to  the  accident — scarcely 
fortunate — of  this  old  man's  passing  with  his  Ian- 
thorn,  it  would  certainly  appear  that  citizens  have 
been  bitten  by  rodents.  It  is  then,  I  fear,  our 
duty  to  institute  proceedings  against  those  poison- 
ous and  violent  animals. " 

And  amidst  the  sighing  of  the  Watch,  it  was  so 
resolved. 

Cethru  was  glad  to  shuffle  away,  unnoticed, 
from  the  Court,  and  sitting  down  under  a  camel- 
date  tree  outside  the  City  Wall,  he  thus  reflected: 

"They  were  rough  with  me!  I  done  nothing 
so  far's  I  can  see!" 

And  a  long  time  he  sat  there  with  the  bunches 
of  the  camel-dates  above  him,  golden  as  the  sun- 
light. Then,  as  the  scent  of  the  lyrio  flowers,  re- 

179 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

leased  by  evening,  warned  him  of  the  night  drop- 
ping like  a  flight  of  dark  birds  on  the  plain,  he  rose 
stiffly,  and  made  his  way  as  usual  toward  the  Vita 
Publica. 

He  had  traversed  but  little  of  that  black  thor- 
oughfare, holding  his  lanthorn  at  the  level  of  his 
breast,  when  the  sound  of  a  splash  and  cries  for 
help  smote  his  long,  thin  ears.  Remembering  how 
the  Captain  of  the  Watch  had  admonished  him,  he 
stopped  and  peered  about,  but  owing  to  his  prox- 
imity to  the  light  of  his  own  lanthorn  he  saw  noth- 
ing. Presently  he  heard  another  splash  and  the 
sound  of  blowings  and  of  puffings,  but  still  unable 
to  see  clearly  whence  they  came,  he  was  forced 
in  bewilderment  to  resume  his  march.  But  he 
had  no  sooner  entered  the  next  bend  of  that  ob- 
scure and  winding  avenue  than  the  most  lamen- 
table, lusty  cries  assailed  him.  Again  he  stood 
still,  blinded  by  his  own  light.  Somewhere  at 
hand  a  citizen  was  being  beaten,  for  vague,  quick- 
moving  forms  emerged  into  the  radiance  of  his 
lanthorn  out  of  the  deep  violet  of  the  night  air. 
The  cries  swelled,  and  died  away,  and  swelled; 
and  the  mazed  Cethru  moved  forward  on  his  way. 
But  very  near  the  end  of  his  first  traversage,  the 
sound  of  a  long,  deep  sighing,  as  of  a  fat  man  in 
spiritual  pain,  once  more  arrested  him. 

180 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

"Drat  me!"  he  thought,  "this  time  I  will  see 
what  'tis/'  and  he  spun  round  and  round,  holding 
his  lanthorn  now  high,  now  low,  and  to  both  sides. 
"The  devil  an'  all's  in  it  to-night,"  he  murmured 
to  himself;  "there's  some  'at  here  fetchin'  of  its 
breath  awful  loud."  But  for  his  life  he  could  see 
nothing,  only  that  the  higher  he  held  his  lanthorn 
the  more  painful  grew  the  sound  of  the  fat  but 
spiritual  sighing.  And  desperately,  he  at  last 
resumed  his  progress. 

On  the  morrow,  while  he  still  slept  stretched  on 
his  straw  pallet,  there  came  to  him  a  member  of 
the  Watch. 

"Old  man,  you  are  wanted  at  the  Court  House; 
rouse  up,  and  bring  your  lanthorn." 

Stiffly  Cethru  rose. 

"What  be  they  wantin'  me  fur  now,  mester?" 

"Ah!"  replied  the  Watchman,  "they  are  about 
to  see  if  they  can't  put  an  end  to  your  goings-on. " 

Cethru  shivered,  and  was  silent. 

Now  when  they  reached  the  Court  House  it 
was  patent  that  a  great  affair  was  forward;  for 
the  Judges  were  in  their  robes,  and  a  crowd  of 
advocates,  burgesses,  and  common  folk  thronged 
the  carven,  lofty  hall  of  justice. 

When  Cethru  saw  that  all  eyes  were  turned  on 
him,  he  shivered  still  more  violently,  fixing  his 

181 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

fascinated  gaze  on  the  three  Judges  in  their  emer- 
ald robes. 

"This  then  is  the  prisoner/'  said  the  oldest  of 
the  Judges;  "proceed  with  the  indictment!" 

A  little  advocate  in  snuff-coloured  clothes  rose 
on  little  legs,  and  commenced  to  read: 

"Forasmuch  as  on  the  seventeenth  night  of 
August  fifteen  hundred  years  since  the  Messiah's 
death,  one  Celestine,  a  maiden  of  this  city,  fell 
into  a  cesspool  in  the  Vita  Publica,  and  while  be- 
ing quietly  drowned,  was  espied  of  the  burgess 
Pardonix  by  the  light  of  a  lanthorn  held  by  the 
old  man  Cethru;  and,  forasmuch  as,  plunging  in, 
the  said  Pardonix  rescued  her,  not  without  grave 
risk  of  life  and  the  ruin  of  his  clothes,  and  to-day 
lies  ill  of  fever;  and  forasmuch  as  the  old  man 
Cethru  was  the  cause  of  these  misfortunes  to  the 
burgess  Pardonix,  by  reason  of  his  wandering 
lanthorn's  showing  the  drowning  maiden,  the 
Watch  do  hereby  indict,  accuse,  and  otherwise 
place  charge  upon  this  Cethru  of  '  Vagabondage 
without  serious  occupation/ 

"And,  forasmuch  as  on  this  same  night  the 
Watchman  Filepo,  made  aware,  by  the  light  of 
this  said  Cethru's  lanthorn,  of  three  sturdy  foot- 
pads, went  to  arrest  them,  and  was  set  on  by  the 
rogues  and  wellnigh  slain,  the  Watch  do  hereby 

182 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

indict,  accuse,  and  otherwise  charge  upon  Cethru 
complicity  in  this  assault,  by  reasons,  namely, 
first,  that  he  discovered  the  footpads  to  the  Watch- 
man and  the  Watchman  to  the  footpads  by  the 
light  of  his  lanthorn;  and,  second,  that,  having 
thus  discovered  them,  he  stood  idly  by  and  gave 
no  assistance  to  the  law. 

"And,  forasmuch  as  on  this  same  night  the 
wealthy  burgess  Pranzo,  who,  having  prepared  a 
banquet,  was  standing  in  his  doorway  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  his  guests,  did  see,  by  the  light  of 
the  said  Cethru's  lanthorn,  a  beggar  woman  and 
her  children  grovelling  in  the  gutter  for  garbage, 
whereby  his  appetite  was  lost  completely;  and, 
forasmuch  as  he,  Pranzo,  has  lodged  a  complaint 
against  the  Constitution  for  permitting  women  and 
children  to  go  starved,  the  Watch  do  hereby  in- 
dict, accuse,  and  otherwise  make  charge  on  Cethru 
of  rebellion  and  of  anarchy,  in  that  wilfully  he 
doth  disturb  good  citizens  by  showing  to  them 
without  provocation  disagreeable  sights,  and  doth 
moreover  endanger  the  laws  by  causing  persons 
to  desire  to  change  them. 

"These  be  the  charges,  reverend  Judges,  so 
please  you!" 

And  having  thus  spoken,  the  little  advocate 
resumed  his  seat. 

183 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

Then  said  the  oldest  of  the  Judges: 

"Cethru,  you  have  heard;  what  answer  do  you 
make?" 

But  no  word,  only  the  chattering  of  teeth,  came 
from  Cethru. 

"Have  you  no  defence?"  said  the  Judge: 
"these  are  grave  accusations!" 

Then  Cethru  spoke. 

"So  please  your  Highnesses,"  he  said,  "can  I 
help  what  my  lanthorn  sees?" 

And  having  spoken  these  words,  to  all  further 
questions  he  remained  more  silent  than  a  head- 
less man. 

The  Judges  took  counsel  of  each  other,  and  the 
oldest  of  them  thus  addressed  himself  to  Cethru: 

"If  you  have  no  defence,  old  man,  and  there  is 
no  one  will  say  a  word  for  you,  we  can  but  proceed 
to  judgment." 

Then  in  the  main  aisle  of  the  Court  there  rose 
a  youthful  advocate. 

"Most  reverend  Judges,"  he  said  in  a  mellif- 
luous voice,  clearer  than  the  fluting  of  a  bell-bird, 
"it  is  useless  to  look  for  words  from  this  old  man, 
for  it  is  manifest  that  he  himself  is  nothing,  and 
that  his  lanthorn  is  alone  concerned  in  this  affair. 
But,  reverend  Judges,  bethink  you  well:  Would 
you  have  a  lanthorn  ply  a  trade  or  be  concerned 

184 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

with  a  profession,  or  do  aught  indeed  but  pervade 
the  streets  at  night,  shedding  its  light,  which,  if 
you  will,  is  vagabondage?  And,  Sirs,  upon  the 
second  count  of  this  indictment:  Would  you  have 
a  lanthorn  dive  into  cesspools  to  rescue  maidens? 
Would  you  have  a  lanthorn  to  beat  footpads?  Or, 
indeed,  to  be  any  sort  of  partisan  either  of  the  Law 
or  of  them  that  break  the  Law?  Sure,  Sirs,  I 
think  not.  And  as  to  this  third  charge  of  foster- 
ing anarchy — let  me  but  describe  the  trick  of  this 
lanthorn's  flame.  It  is  distilled,  most  reverend 
Judges,  of  oil  and  wick,  together  with  that  sweet 
secret  heat  of  whose  birth  no  words  of  mine  can 
tell.  And  when,  Sirs,  this  pale  flame  has  sprung 
into  the  air  swaying  to  every  wind,  it  brings 
vision  to  the  human  eye.  And,  if  it  be  charged  on 
this  old  man  Cethru  that  he  and  his  lanthorn  by 
reason  of  their  showing  not  only  the  good  but  the 
evil  bring  no  pleasure  into  the  world,  I  ask,  Sirs, 
what  in  the  world  is  so  dear  as  this  power  to  see — 
whether  it  be  the  beautiful  or  the  foul  that  is  dis- 
closed? Need  I,  indeed,  tell  you  of  the  way  this 
flame  spreads  its  feelers,  and  delicately  darts  and 
hovers  in  the  darkness,  conjuring  things  from 
nothing?  This  mechanical  summoning,  Sirs,  of 
visions  out  of  blackness  is  benign,  by  no  means  of 
malevolent  intent;  no  more  than  if  a  man,  pass- 

185 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

ing  two  donkeys  in  the  road,  one  lean  and  the 
other  fat,  could  justly  be  arraigned  for  malignancy 
because  they  were  not  both  fat.  This,  reverend 
Judges,  is  the  essence  of  the  matter  concerning 
the  rich  burgess,  Pranzo,  who,  on  account  of  the 
sight  he  saw  by  Cethru's  lanthorn,  has  lost  the 
equilibrium  of  his  stomach.  For,  Sirs,  the  lan- 
thorn did  but  show  that  which  was  there,  both 
fair  and  foul,  no  more,  no  less;  and  though  it  is 
indeed  true  that  Pranzo  is  upset,  it  was  not 
because  the  lanthorn  maliciously  produced  dis- 
torted images,  but  merely  caused  to  be  seen,  in 
due  proportions,  things  which  Pranzo  had  not 
seen  before.  And  surely,  reverend  Judges,  being 
just  men,  you  would  not  have  this  lanthorn  turn 
its  light  away  from  what  is  ragged  and  ugly 
because  there  are  also  fair  things  on  which  its 
light  may  fall;  how,  indeed,  being  a  lanthorn, 
could  it,  if  it  would?  And  I  would  have  you 
note  this,  Sirs,  that  by  this  impartial  discovery 
of  the  proportions  of  one  thing  to  another,  this 
lanthorn  must  indeed  perpetually  seem  to  cloud 
and  sadden  those  things  which  are  fair,  because 
of  the  deep  instincts  of  harmony  and  justice 
planted  in  the  human  breast.  However  unfair 
and  cruel,  then,  this  lanthorn  may  seem  to  those 
who,  deficient  in  these  instincts,  desire  all  their 

186 


A  NOVELIST'S  ALLEGORY 

lives  to  see  naught  but  what  is  pleasant,  lest 
they,  like  Pranzo,  should  lose  their  appetites — 
it  is  not  consonant  with  equity  that  this  lanthorn 
should,  even  if  it  could,  be  prevented  from  thus 
mechanically  buffeting  the  holiday  cheek  of  life. 
I  would  think,  Sirs,  that  you  should  rather  blame 
the  queazy  state  of  Pranzo's  stomach.  The  old 
man  has  said  that  he  cannot  help  what  his  lan- 
thorn sees.  This  is  a  just  saying.  But  if,  rever- 
end Judges,  you  deem  this  equipoised,  indifferent 
lanthorn  to  be  indeed  blameworthy  for  having 
shown  in  the  same  moment,  side  by  side,  the  skull 
and  the  fair  face,  the  burdock  and  the  tiger-lily, 
the  butterfly  and  toad,  then,  most  reverend 
Judges,  punish  it,  but  do  not  punish  this  old  man, 
for  he  himself  is  but  a  flume  of  smoke,  thistle 
down  dispersed — nothing!" 

So  saying,  the  young  advocate  ceased. 

Again  the  three  Judges  took  counsel  of  each 
other,  and  after  much  talk  had  passed  between 
them,  the  oldest  spoke : 

"What  this  young  advocate  has  said  seems 
to  us  to  be  the  truth.  We  cannot  punish  a  lan- 
thorn. Let  the  old  man  go!" 

And  Cethru  went  out  into  the  sunshine.  .  .  . 

Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Prince  of  Felic- 
itas,  returning  from  his  journey,  rode  once  more 

187 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

on  his  amber -coloured  steed  down  the  Vita 
Publica. 

The  night  was  dark  as  a  rook's  wing,  but  far 
away  down  the  street  burned  a  little  light,  like  a 
red  star  truant  from  heaven.  The  Prince  riding 
by  descried  it  for  a  lanthorn,  with  an  old  man 
sleeping  beside  it. 

"How  is  this,  Friend? "  said  the  Prince.  "You 
are  not  walking  as  I  bade  you,  carrying  your 
lanthorn." 

But  Cethru  neither  moved  nor  answered. 

"Lift  him  up!"  said  the  Prince. 

They  lifted  up  his  head  and  held  the  lanthorn 
to  his  closed  eyes.  So  lean  was  that  brown  face 
that  the  beams  from  the  lanthorn  would  not  rest 
on  it,  but  slipped  past  on  either  side  into  the  night. 
His  eyes  did  not  open.  He  was  dead. 

And  the  Prince  touched  him,  saying :  "  Farewell, 
old  man !  The  lanthorn  is  still  alight.  Go,  fetch 
me  another  one,  and  let  him  carry  it!"  ... 

1909. 


188 


SOME  PLATITUDES  CONCERNING 
DRAMA 

A  DRAMA  must  be  shaped  so  as  to  have  a 
spire  of  meaning.  Every  grouping  of  life 
and  character  has  its  inherent  moral;  and  the 
business  of  the  dramatist  is  so  to  pose  the  group 
as  to  bring  that  moral  poignantly  to  the  light  of 
day.  Such  is  the  moral  that  exhales  from  plays 
like  Lear,  Hamletj  and  Macbeth.  But  such  is  not 
the  moral  to  be  found  in  the  great  bulk  of  con- 
temporary Drama.  The  moral  of  the  average 
play  is  now,  and  probably  has  always  been,  the 
triumph  at  all  costs  of  a  supposed  immediate  ethi- 
cal good  over  a  supposed  immediate  ethical  evil. 

The  vice  of  drawing  these  distorted  morals  has 
permeated  the  Drama  to  its  spine;  discoloured  its 
art,  humanity,  and  significance;  infected  its 
creators,  actors,  audience,  critics;  too  often  turned 
it  from  a  picture  into  a  caricature.  A  Drama 
which  lives  under  the  shadow  of  the  distorted 
moral  forgets  how  to  be  free,  fair,  and  fine — for- 
gets so  completely  that  it  often  prides  itself  on 
having  forgotten. 

Now,  in  writing  plays,  there  are,  in  this  matter 
189 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

of  the  moral,  three  courses  open  to  the  serious 
dramatist.  The  first  is:  To  definitely  set  before 
the  public  that  which  it  wishes  to  have  set  before 
it,  the  views  and  codes  of  life  by  which  the  public 
lives  and  in  which  it  believes.  This  way  is  the 
most  common,  successful,  and  popular.  It  makes 
the  dramatist's  position  sure,  and  not  too  obvi- 
ously authoritative. 

The  second  course  is:  To  definitely  set  before 
the  public  those  views  and  codes  of  life  by  which 
the  dramatist  himself  lives,  those  theories  in  which 
he  himself  believes,  the  more  effectively  if  they  are 
the  opposite  of  what  the  public  wishes  to  have 
placed  before  it,  presenting  them  so  that  the  audi- 
ence may  swallow  them  like  powder  in  a  spoonful 
of  jam. 

There  is  a  third  course:  To  set  before  the  public 
no  cut-and-dried  codes,  but  the  phenomena  of 
life  and  character,  selected  and  combined,  but 
not  distorted,  by  the  dramatist's  outlook,  set  down 
without  fear,  favour,  or  prejudice,  leaving  the  pub- 
lic to  draw  such  poor  moral  as  nature  may  afford. 
This  third  method  requires  a  certain  detachment; 
it  requires  a  sympathy  with,  a  love  of,  and  a 
curiosity  as  to,  things  for  their  own  sake;  it  re- 
quires a  far  view,  together  with  patient  industry, 
for  no  immediately  practical  result. 

190 


PLATITUDES  CONCERNING  DRAMA 

It  was  once  said  of  Shakespeare  that  he  had 
never  done  any  good  to  any  one,  and  never  would. 
This,  unfortunately,  could  not,  in  the  sense  in 
which  the  word  "good"  was  then  meant,  be  said 
of  most  modern  dramatists.  In  truth,  the  good 
that  Shakespeare  did  to  humanity  was  of  a  remote, 
and,  shall  we  say,  eternal  nature;  something  of 
the  good  that  men  get  from  having  the  sky  and 
the  sea  to  look  at.  And  this  partly  because  he 
was,  in  his  greater  plays  at  all  events,  free  from 
the  habit  of  drawing  a  distorted  moral.  Now,  the 
playwright  who  supplies  to  the  public  the  facts 
of  life  distorted  by  the  moral  which  it  expects,  does 
so  that  he  may  do  the  public  what  he  considers  an 
immediate  good,  by  fortifying  its  prejudices;  and 
the  dramatist  who  supplies  to  the  public  facts  dis- 
torted by  his  own  advanced  morality,  does  so  be- 
cause he  considers  that  he  will  at  once  benefit  the 
public  by  substituting  for  its  worn-out  ethics,  his 
own.  In  both  cases  the  advantage  the  dramatist 
hopes  to  confer  on  the  public  is  immediate  and 
practical. 

But  matters  change,  and  morals  change;  men 
remain — and  to  set  men,  and  the  facts  about  them, 
down  faithfully,  so  that  they  draw  for  us  the  moral 
of  their  natural  actions,  may  also  possibly  be  of 
benefit  to  the  community.  It  is,  at  all  events, 

191 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

harder  than  to  set  men  and  facts  down,  as  they 
ought,  or  ought  not  to  be.  This,  however,  is  not 
to  say  that  a  dramatist  should,  or  indeed  can, 
keep  himself  and  his  temperamental  philosophy 
out  of  his  work.  As  a  man  lives  and  thinks,  so 
will  he  write.  But  it  is  certain,  that  to  the  making 
of  good  drama,  as  to  the  practice  of  every  other 
art,  there  must  be  brought  an  almost  passionate 
love  of  discipline,  a  white-heat  of  self-respect,  a 
desire  to  make  the  truest,  fairest,  best  thing  in 
one's  power;  and  that  to  these  must  be  added  an 
eye  that  does  not  flinch.  Such  qualities  alone 
will  bring  to  a  drama  the  selfless  character  which 
soaks  it  with  inevitability. 

The  word  " pessimist"  is  frequently  applied 
to  the  few  dramatists  who  have  been  content  to 
work  in  this  way.  It  has  been  applied,  among 
others,  to  Euripides,  to  Shakespeare,  to  Ibsen;  it 
will  be  applied  to  many  in  the  future.  Nothing, 
however,  is  more  dubious  than  the  way  in  which 
these  two  words  " pessimist"  and  "optimist"  are 
used;  for  the  optimist  appears  to  be  he  who  can- 
not bear  the  world  as  it  is,  and  is  forced  by  his 
nature  to  picture  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  and  the 
pessimist  one  who  cannot  only  bear  the  world  as 
it  is,  but  loves  it  well  enough  to  draw  it  faithfully. 
The  true  lover  of  the  human  race  is  surely  he  who 

192 


PLATITUDES  CONCERNING  DRAMA 

can  put  up  with  it  in  all  its  forms,  in  vice  as  well 
as  in  virtue,  in  defeat  no  less  than  in  victory;  the 
true  seer  he  who  sees  not  only  joy  but  sorrow,  the 
true  painter  of  human  life  one  who  blinks  nothing. 
It  may  be  that  he  is  also,  incidentally,  its  true 
benefactor. 

In  the  whole  range  of  the  social  fabric  there  are 
only  two  impartial  persons,  the  scientist  and  the 
artist,  and  under  the  latter  heading  such  dram- 
atists as  desire  to  write  not  only  for  to-day,  but 
for  to-morrow,  must  strive  to  come. 

But  dramatists  being  as  they  are  made — past 
remedy — it  is  perhaps  more  profitable  to  examine 
the  various  points  at  which  their  qualities  and 
defects  are  shown. 

The  plot !  A  good  plot  is  that  sure  edifice  which 
slowly  rises  out  of  the  interplay  of  circumstance 
on  temperament,  and  temperament  on  circum- 
stance, within  the  enclosing  atmosphere  of  an  idea. 
A  human  being  is  the  best  plot  there  is;  it  may  be 
impossible  to  see  why  he  is  a  good  plot,  because  the 
idea  within  which  he  was  brought  forth  cannot 
be  fully  grasped;  but  it  is  plain  that  he  is  a  good 
plot.  He  is  organic.  And  so  it  must  be  with  a 
good  play.  Reason  alone  produces  no  good  plots; 
they  come  by  original  sin,  sure  conception,  and 
instinctive  after-power  of  selecting  what  benefits 

193 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

the  germ.  A  bad  plot,  on  the  other  hand,  is  sim- 
ply a  row  of  stakes,  with  a  character  impaled  on 
each — characters  who  would  have  liked  to  live, 
but  came  to  untimely  grief;  who  started  bravely, 
but  fell  on  these  stakes,  placed  beforehand  in  a 
row,  and  were  transfixed  one  by  one,  while  their 
ghosts  stride  on,  squeaking  and  gibbering,  through 
the  play.  Whether  these  stakes  are  made  of  facts 
or  of  ideas,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  dramatist 
who  planted  them,  their  effect  on  the  unfortunate 
characters  is  the  same ;  the  creatures  were  begotten 
to  be  staked,  and  staked  they  are!  The  demand 
for  a  good  plot,  not  unfrequently  heard,  commonly 
signifies:  "Tickle  my  sensations  by  stuffing  the 
play  with  arbitrary  adventures,  so  that  I  need  not 
be  troubled  to  take  the  characters  seriously.  Set 
the  persons  of  the  play  to  action,  regardless  of 
time,  sequence,  atmosphere,  and  probability!" 

Now,  true  dramatic  action  is  what  characters 
do,  at  once  contrary,  as  it  were,  to  expectation, 
and  yet  because  they  have  already  done  other 
things.  No  dramatist  should  let  his  audience 
know  what  is  coming;  but  neither  should  he  suffer 
his  characters  to  act  without  making  his  audience 
feel  that  those  actions  are  in  harmony  with  temper- 
ament, and  arise  from  previous  known  actions,  to- 
gether with  the  temperaments  and  previous  known 

194 


PLATITUDES  CONCERNING  DRAMA 

actions  of  the  other  characters  in  the  play.  The 
dramatist  who  hangs  his  characters  to  his  plot, 
instead  of  hanging  his  plot  to  his  characters,  is 
guilty  of  cardinal  sin. 

The  dialogue !  Good  dialogue  again  is  character, 
marshalled  so  as  continually  to  stimulate  interest 
or  excitement.  The  reason  good  dialogue  is  sel- 
dom found  in  plays  is  merely  that  it  is  hard  to 
write,  for  it  requires  not  only  a  knowledge  of  what 
interests  or  excites,  but  such  a  feeling  for  character 
as  brings  misery  to  the  dramatist's  heart  when  his 
creations  speak  as  they  should  not  speak — ashes 
to  his  mouth  when  they  say  things  for  the  sake 
of  saying  them — disgust  when  they  are  "smart." 

The  art  of  writing  true  dramatic  dialogue  is  an 
austere  art,  denying  itself  all  license,  grudging 
every  sentence  devoted  to  the  mere  machinery  of 
the  play,  suppressing  all  jokes  and  epigrams 
severed  from  character,  relying  for  fun  and  pathos 
on  the  fun  and  tears  of  life.  From  start  to  finish 
good  dialogue  is  hand-made,  like  good  lace;  clear, 
of  fine  texture,  furthering  with  each  thread  the 
harmony  and  strength  of  a  design  to  which  all 
must  be  subordinated. 

But  good  dialogue  is  also  spiritual  action.  In 
so  far  as  the  dramatist  divorces  his  dialogue  from 
spiritual  action — that  is  to  say,  from  progress  of 

195 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

events,  or  toward  events  which  are  significant  of 
character — he  is  stultifying  TO  Spdpa  the  thing 
done;  he  may  make  pleasing  disquisitions,  he  is 
not  making  drama.  And  in  so  far  as  he  twists 
character  to  suit  his  moral  or  his  plot,  he  is  neg- 
lecting a  first  principle,  that  truth  to  Nature  which 
alone  invests  art  with  hand-made  quality. 

The  dramatist's  license,  in  fact,  ends  with  his 
design.  In  conception  alone  he  is  free.  He  may 
take  what  character  or  group  of  characters  he 
chooses,  see  them  with  what  eyes,  knit  them  with 
what  idea,  within  the  limits  of  his  temperament; 
but  once  taken,  seen,  and  knitted,  he  is  bound  to 
treat  them  like  a  gentleman,  with  the  tenderest 
consideration  of  their  mainsprings.  Take  care 
of  character;  action  and  dialogue  will  take  care 
of  themselves!  The  true  dramatist  gives  full 
rein  to  his  temperament  in  the  scope  and  nature  of 
his  subject;  having  once  selected  subject  and  char- 
acters, he  is  just,  gentle,  restrained,  neither 
gratifying  his  lust  for  praise  at  the  expense  of  his 
offspring,  nor  using  them  as  puppets  to  flout  his 
audience.  Being  himself  the  nature  that  brought 
them  forth,  he  guides  them  in  the  course  pre- 
destined at  their  conception.  So  only  have  they 
a  chance  of  defying  Time,  which  is  always  lying 
in  wait  to  destroy  the  false,  topical,  or  fashionable, 

196 


PLATITUDES  CONCERNING  DRAMA 

all — in  a  word — that  is  not  based  on  the  permanent 
elements  of  human  nature.  The  perfect  dramatist 
rounds  up  his  characters  and  facts  within  the  ring- 
fence  of  a  dominant  idea  which  fulfils  the  craving 
of  his  spirit;  having  got  them  there,  he  suffers 
them  to  live  their  own  lives. 

Plot,  action,  character,  dialogue!  But  there 
is  yet  another  subject  for  a  platitude.  Flavour! 
An  impalpable  quality,  less  easily  captured  than 
the  scent  of  a  flower,  the  peculiar  and  most  essen- 
tial attribute  of  any  work  of  art!  It  is  the  thin, 
poignant  spirit  which  hovers  up  out  of  a  play,  and 
is  as  much  its  differentiating  essence  as  is  caffeine 
of  coffee.  .  Flavour,  in  fine,  is  the  spirit  of  the 
dramatist  projected  into  his  work  in  a  state  of 
volatility,  so  that  no  one  can  exactly  lay  hands 
on  it,  here,  there,  or  anywhere.  This  distinctive 
essence  of  a  play,  marking  its  brand,  is  the  one 
thing  at  which  the  dramatist  cannot  work,  for  it 
is  outside  his  consciousness.  A  man  may  have 
many  moods,  he  has  but  one  spirit;  and  this 
spirit  he  communicates  in  some  subtle,  unconscious 
way  to  all  his  work.  It  waxes  and  wanes  with  the 
currents  of  his  vitality,  but  no  more  alters  than  a 
chestnut  changes  into  an  oak. 

For,  in  truth,  dramas  are  very  like  unto  trees, 
springing  from  seedlings,  shaping  themselves  in- 
evitably in  accordance  with  the  laws  fast  hidden 

197 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

within  themselves,  drinking  sustenance  from  the 
earth  and  air,  and  in  conflict  with  the  natural 
forces  round  them.  So  they  slowly  come  to  full 
growth,  until  warped,  stunted,  or  risen  to  fair  and 
gracious  height,  they  stand  open  to  all  the  winds. 
And  the  trees  that  spring  from  each  dramatist  are 
of  different  race;  he  is  the  spirit  of  his  own  sacred 
grove,  into. which  no  stray  tree  can  by  any  chance 
enter. 

One  more  platitude.  It  is  not  unfashionable  to 
pit  one  form  of  drama  against  another — holding 
up  the  naturalistic  to  the  disadvantage  of  the 
epic;  the  epic  to  the  belittlement  of  the  fantastic; 
the  fantastic  to  the  detriment  of  the  naturalistic. 
Little  purpose  is  thus  served.  The  essential  mean- 
ing, truth,  beauty,  and  irony  of  things  may  be 
revealed  under  all  these  forms.  Vision  over  Me 
and  human  nature  can  be  as  keen  and  just,  the 
revelation  as  true,  inspiring,  delight-giving,  and 
thought-provoking,  whatever  fashion  be  employed 
— it  is  simply  a  question  of  doing  it  well  enough 
to  uncover  the  kernel  of  the  nut.  Whether  the 
violet  come  from  Russia,  from  Parma,  or  from 
England,  matters  little.  Close  by  the  Greek 
temples  at  Paestum  there  are  violets  that  seem 
redder,  and  sweeter,  than  any  ever  seen — as 
though  they  have  sprung  up  out  of  the  footprints 
of  some  old  pagan  goddess;  but  under  the  April 

198 


PLATITUDES  CONCERNING  DRAMA 

sun,  in  a  Devonshire  lane,  the  little  blue  scentless 
violets  capture  every  bit  as  much  of  the  spring. 
And  so  it  is  with  drama — no  matter  what  its  form 
— it  need  only  be  the  "  real  thing, "  need  only  have 
caught  some  of  the  precious  fluids,  revelation,  or 
delight,  and  imprisoned  them  within  a  chalice  to 
which  we  may  put  our  lips  and  continually  drink. 

And  yet,  starting  from  this  last  platitude,  one 
may  perhaps  be  suffered  to  speculate  as  to  the 
particular  forms  that  our  renascent  drama  is 
likely  to  assume.  For  our  drama  is  renascent, 
and  nothing  will  stop  its  growth.  It  is  not  re- 
nascent because  this  or  that  man  is  writing,  but 
because  of  a  new  spirit.  A  spirit  that  is  no  doubt 
in  part  the  gradual  outcome  of  the  impact  on  our 
home-grown  art,  of  Russian,  French,  and  Scandi- 
navian influences,  but  which  in  the  main  rises  from 
an  awakened  humanity  in  the  conscience  of  our  time. 

What,  then,  are  to  be  the  main  channels  down 
which  the  renascent  English  drama  will  float  in 
the  coming  years?  It  is  more  than  possible  that 
these  main  channels  will  come  to  be  two  in  num- 
ber and  situate  far  apart. 

The  one  will  be  the  broad  and  clear-cut  channel 
of  naturalism,  down  which  will  course  a  drama 
poignantly  shaped,  and  inspired  with  high  inten- 
tion, but  faithful  to  the  seething  and  multiple  life 

199 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

around  us,  drama  such  as  some  are  inclined  to 
term  photographic,  deceived  by  a  seeming  sim- 
plicity into  forgetfulness  of  the  old  proverb,  "Ars 
est  celare  artem,"  and  oblivious  of  the  fact  that, 
to  be  vital,  to  grip,  such  drama  is  in  every  respect 
as  dependent  on  imagination,  construction,  selec- 
tion, and  elimination — the  main  laws  of  artistry 
— as  ever  was  the  romantic  or  rhapsodic  play. 
The  question  of  naturalistic  technique  will  bear, 
indeed,  much  more  study  than  has  yet  been  given 
to  it.  The  aim  of  the  dramatist  employing  it  is 
obviously  to  create  such  an  illusion  of  actual  life 
passing  on  the  stage  as  to  compel  the  spectator 
to  pass  through  an  experience  of  his  own,  to  think, 
and  talk,  and  move  with  the  people  he  sees  think- 
ing, talking,  and  moving  in  front  of  him.  A  false 
phrase,  a  single  word  out  of  tune  or  time,  will  de- 
stroy that  illusion  and  spoil  the  surface  as  surely 
as  a  stone  heaved  into  a  still  pool  shatters  the  image 
seen  there.  But  this  is  only  the  beginning  of  the 
reason  why  the  naturalistic  is  the  most  exacting 
and  difficult  of  all  techniques.  It  is  easy  enough 
to  reproduce  the  exact  conversation  and  move- 
ments of  persons  in  a  room;  it  is  desperately  hard 
to  produce  the  perfectly  natural  conversation  and 
movements  of  those  persons,  when  each  natural 
phrase  spoken  and  each  natural  movement  made 

200 


PLATITUDES  CONCERNING  DRAMA 

has  not  only  to  contribute  toward  the  growth  and 
perfection  of  a  drama's  soul,  but  also  to  be  a  reve- 
lation, phrase  by  phrase,  movement  by  move- 
ment, of  essential  traits  of  character.  To  put  it 
another  way,  naturalistic  art,  when  alive,  indeed 
to  be  alive  at  all,  is  simply  the  art  of  manipu- 
lating a  procession  of  most  delicate  symbols.  Its 
service  is  the  swaying  and  focussing  of  men's 
feelings  and  thoughts  in  the  various  departments 
of  human  life.  It  will  be  like  a  steady  lamp,  held 
up  from  time  to  time,  in  whose  light  things  will  be 
seen  for  a  space  clearly  and  in  due  proportion, 
freed  from  the  mists  of  prejudice  and  partisanship. 
And  the  other  of  these  two  main  channels  will, 
I  think,  be  a  twisting  and  delicious  stream,  which 
will  bear  on  its  breast  new  barques  of  poetry, 
shaped,  it  may  be,  like  prose,  but  a  prose  incarnat- 
ing through  its  fantasy  and  symbolism  all  the 
deeper  aspirations,  yearning,  doubts,  and  myste- 
rious stirrings  of  the  human  spirit;  a  poetic 
prose-drama,  emotionalising  us  by  its  diversity 
and  purity  of  form  and  invention,  and  whose 
province  will  be  to  disclose  the  elemental  soul  of 
man  and  the  forces  of  Nature,  not  perhaps  as  the 
old  tragedies  disclosed  them,  not  necessarily  in 
the  epic  mood,  but  always  with  beauty  and  in  the 
spirit  of  discovery. 

201 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

Such  will,  I  think,  be  the  two  vital  forms  of  our 
drama  in  the  coming  generation.  And  between 
these  two  forms  there  must  be  no  crude  unions; 
they  are  too  far  apart,  the  cross  is  too  violent. 
For,  where  there  is  a  seeming  blend  of  lyricism  and 
naturalism,  it  will  on  examination  be  found,  I 
think,  to  exist  only  in  plays  whose  subjects  or 
settings — as  in  Synge's  "Playboy  of  the  Western 
World,"  or  in  Mr.  Masefield's  "Nan" — are  so  re- 
moved from  our  ken  that  we  cannot  really  tell, 
and  therefore  do  not  care,  whether  an  absolute  il- 
lusion is  maintained.  The  poetry  which  may  and 
should  exist  in  naturalistic  drama,  can  only  be  that 
of  perfect  rightness  of  proportion,  rhythm,  shape — 
the  poetry,  in  fact,  that  lies  in  all  vital  things.  It  is 
the  ill-mating  of  forms  that  has  killed  a  thousand 
plays.  We  want  no  more  bastard  drama;  no 
more  attempts  to  dress  out  the  simple  dignity  of 
everyday  life  in  the  peacock's  feathers  of  false 
lyricism;  no  more  straw-stuffed  heroes  or  heroines; 
no  more  rabbits  and  goldfish  from  the  conjurer's 
pockets,  nor  any  limelight.  Let  us  have  starlight, 
moonlight,  sunlight,  and  the  light  of  our  own  self- 
respects. 

1909. 

202 


MEDITATION  ON  FINALITY 

IN  the  Grand  Canyon  of  Arizona,  that  most  ex- 
hilarating of  all  natural  phenomena,  Nature 
has  for  once  so  focussed  her  effects,  that  the  result 
is  a  framed  and  final  work  of  Art.  For  there,  be- 
tween two  high  lines  of  plateau,  level  as  the  sea, 
are  sunk  the  wrought  thrones  of  the  innumerable 
gods,  couchant,  and  for  ever  revering,  hi  their 
million  moods  of  light  and  colour,  the  Master 
Mystery. 

Having  seen  this  culmination,  I  realize  why 
many  people  either  recoil  before  it,  and  take  the 
first  train  home,  or  speak  of  it  as  a  "remarkable 
formation. "  For,  though  mankind  at  large  craves 
finality,  it  does  not  crave  the  sort  that  bends  the 
knee  to  Mystery.  In  Nature,  in  Religion,  in  Art, 
in  Life,  the  common  cry  is:  "Tell  me  precisely 
where  I  am,  what  doing,  and  where  going !  Let  me 
be  free  of  this  fearful  untidiness  of  not  knowing 
all  about  it!"  The  favoured  religions  are  always 
those  whose  message  is  most  finite.  The  fashion- 
able professions — they  that  end  us  in  assured  posi- 
tions. The  most  popular  works  of  fiction,  such 

203 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

as  leave  nothing  to  our  imagination.  And  to  this 
craving  after  prose,  who  would  not  be  lenient,  that 
has  at  all  known  life,  with  its  usual  predominance 
of  our  lower  and  less  courageous  selves,  our  con- 
stant hankering  after  the  cosey  closed  door  and 
line  of  least  resistance?  We  are  continually  beg- 
ging to  be  allowed  to  know  for  certain;  though,  if 
our  prayer  were  granted,  and  Mystery  no  longer 
hovered,  made  blue  the  hills,  and  turned  day 
into  night,  we  should,  as  surely,  wail  at  once 
to  be  delivered  of  that  ghastliness  of  knowing 
things  for  certain! 

Now,  in  Art,  I  would  never  quarrel  with  a  cer- 
tain living  writer  who  demands  of  it  the  kind  of 
finality  implied  in  what  he  calls  a  "moral  dis- 
covery"— using,  no  doubt,  the  words  in  their 
widest  sense.  I  would  maintain,  however,  that 
such  finality  is  not  confined  to  positively  discover- 
ing the  true  conclusion  of  premises  laid  down;  but 
that  it  may  also  distil  gradually,  negatively  from 
the  whole  work,  in  a  moral  discovery,  as  it  were, 
of  Author.  In  other  words,  that,  permeation  by 
an  essential  point  of  view,  by  emanation  of  author, 
may  so  unify  and  vitalize  a  work,  as  to  give  it  all 
the  finality  that  need  be  required  of  Art.  For  the 
finality  that  is  requisite  to  Art,  be  it  positive  or 
negative,  is  not  the  finality  of  dogma,  nor  the 

204 


MEDITATION  ON  FINALITY 

finality  of  fact,  it  is  ever  the  finality  of  feeling — of 
a  spiritual  light,  subtly  gleaned  by  the  spectator 
out  of  that  queer  luminous  haze  which  one  man's 
nature  must  ever  be  to  others.  And  herein, 
incidentally,  it  is  that  Art  acquires  also  that 
quality  of  mystery,  more  needful  to  it  even  than 
finality,  for  the  mystery  that  wraps  a  work  of 
Art  is  the  mystery  of  its  maker,  and  the  mystery 
of  its  maker  is  the  difference  between  that  maker's 
soul  and  every  other  soul. 

But  let  me  take  an  illustration  of  what  I  mean 
by  these  two  kinds  of  finality  that  Art  may  have, 
and  show  that  in  essence  they  are  but  two  halves 
of  the  same  thing.  The  term  "a  work  of  Art" 
will  not  be  denied,  I  think,  to  that  early  novel  of 
M.  Anatole  France,  "Le  Lys  Rouge."  Now, 
that  novel  has  positive  finality,  since  the  spiritual 
conclusion  from  its  premises  strikes  one  as  true. 
But  neither  will  the  term  aa  work  of  Art"  be 
denied  to  the  same  writer's  four  "Bergeret"  vol- 
umes, whose  negative  finality  consists  only  hi  the 
temperamental  atmosphere  wherein  they  are 
soaked.  Now,  if  the  theme  of  "Le  Lys  Rouge" 
had  been  treated  by  Tolstoy,  Meredith,  or  Tur- 
genev,  we  should  have  had  spiritual  conclusions 
from  the  same  factual  premises  so  different  from 
M.  France's  as  prunes  from  prisms,  and  yet,  being 

205 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

the  work  of  equally  great  artists,  they  would, 
doubtless,  have  struck  us  as  equally  true.  Is  not, 
then,  the  positive  finality  of  "Le  Lys  Rouge,'7 
though  expressed  in  terms  of  a  different  craftsman- 
ship, the  same,  in  essence,  as  the  negative  finality 
of  the  "  Bergeret "  volumes  ?  Are  not  both,  in  fact, 
merely  flower  of  author  true  to  himself  ?  So  long 
as  the  scent,  colour,  form  of  that  flower  is  strong 
and  fine  enough  to  affect  the  senses  of  our  spirit, 
then  all  the  rest,  surely,  is  academic — I  would 
say,  immaterial. 

But  here,  in  regard  to  Art,  is  where  mankind  at 
large  comes  on  the  field.  " '  Flower  of  author/  "  it 
says,  '" Senses  of  the  spirit P  Phew!  Give  me 
something  I  can  understand !  Let  me  know  where 
I  am  getting  to!"  In  a  word,  it  wants  a  finality 
different  from  that  which  Art  can  give.  It  will 
ask  the  artist,  with  irritation,  what  his  solution,  or 
his  lesson,  or  his  meaning,  really  is,  having  omitted 
to  notice  that  the  poor  creature  has  been  giving 
all  the  meaning  that  he  can,  in  every  sentence.  It 
will  demand  to  know  why  it  was  not  told  definitely 
what  became  of  Charles  or  Mary  in  whom  it  had 
grown  so  interested;  and  will  be  almost  frightened 
to  learn  that  the  artist  knows  no  more  than  itself. 
And  if  by  any  chance  it  be  required  to  dip  its  mind 
into  a  philosophy  that  does  not  promise  it  a  defined 

206 


MEDITATION  ON  FINALITY 

position  both  in  this  world  and  the  next,  it  will  as- 
suredly recoil,  and  with  a  certain  contempt  say: 
"No,  sir!  This  means  nothing  to  me;  and  if  it 
means  anything  to  you — which  I  very  much  doubt 
— I  am  sorry  for  you!" 

It  must  have  facts,  and  again  facts,  not  only  in 
the  present  and  the  past,  but  in  the  future.  And 
it  demands  facts  of  that,  which  alone  cannot  glibly 
give  it  facts.  It  goes  on  asking  facts  of  Art,  or, 
rather,  such  facts  as  Art  cannot  give — for,  after 
all,  even  " flower  of  author"  is  fact  in  a  sort  of 
way. 

Consider,  for  instance,  Synge's  masterpiece, 
"The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World!"  There  is 
flower  of  author!  What  is  it  for  mankind  at 
large?  An  attack  on  the  Irish  character!  A 
pretty  piece  of  writing!  An  amusing  farce! 
Enigmatic  cynicism  leading  nowhere!  A  puzzling 
fellow  wrote  it!  Mankind  at  large  has  little 
patience  with  puzzling  fellows. 

Few,  in  fact,  want  flower  of  author.  Moreover, 
it  is  a  quality  that  may  well  be  looked  for  where  it 
does  not  exist.  To  say  that  the  finality  which 
Art  requires  is  merely  an  enwrapping  mood,  or 
flower  of  author,  is  not  by  any  means  to  say  that 
any  robust  fellow,  slamming  his  notions  down  in 
ink,  can  give  us  these.  Indeed,  no!  So  long  as 

207 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

we  see  the  author's  proper  person  in  his  work,  we 
do  not  see  the  flower  of  him.  Let  him  retreat  him- 
self, if  he  pretend  to  be  an  artist.  There  is  no  less 
of  subtle  skill,  no  less  impersonality,  in  the  "Ber- 
geret"  volumes  than  in  "Le  Lys  Rouge."  No 
less  labour  and  mental  torturing  went  to  their 
making,  page  by  page,  in  order  that  they  might 
exhale  their  perfume  of  mysterious  finality,  their 
withdrawn  but  implicit  judgment.  Flower  of 
author  is  not  quite  so  common  as  the  buttercup, 
the  Calif ornian  poppy,  or  the  gay  Texan  gaillardia, 
and  for  that  very  reason  the  finality  it  gives  off 
will  never  be  robust  enough  for  a  mankind  at  large 
that  would  have  things  cut  and  dried,  and  labelled 
in  thick  letters.  For,  consider — to  take  one  phase 
alone  of  this  demand  for  factual  finality — how 
continual  and  insistent  is  the  cry  for  characters 
that  can  be  worshipped;  how  intense  and  per- 
sistent the  desire  to  be  told  that  Charles  was  a  real 
hero ;  and  how  bitter  the  regret  that  Mary  was  no 
better  than  she  should  be!  Mankind  at  large 
wants  heroes  that  are  heroes,  and  heroines  that 
are  heroines — and  nothing  so  inappropriate  to 
them  as  unhappy  endings. 

Travelling  away,  I  remember,  from  that  Grand 
Canyon  of  Arizona  were  a  young  man  and  a  young 
woman,  evidently  in  love.  He  was  sitting  very 

208 


MEDITATION  ON  FINALITY 

close  to  her,  and  reading  aloud  for  her  pleasure, 
from  a  paper-covered  novel,  heroically  oblivious 
of  us  all: 

"'Sir  Robert/  she  murmured,  lifting  her  beau- 
teous eyes,  'I  may  not  tempt  you,  for  you  are  too 
dear  to  me!'  Sir  Robert  held  her  lovely  face  be- 
tween his  two  strong  hands.  ' Farewell !'  he  said, 
and  went  out  into  the  night.  But  something 
told  them  both  that,  when  he  had  fulfilled  his  duty, 
Sir  Robert  would  return.  ..."  He  had  not  re- 
turned before  we  reached  the  Junction,  but  there 
was  finality  about  that  baronet,  and  we  well  knew 
that  he  ultimately  would.  And,  long  after  the 
sound  of  that  young  man's  faithful  reading  had 
died  out  of  our  ears,  we  meditated  on  Sir  Robert, 
and  compared  him  with  the  famous  characters  of 
fiction,  slowly  perceiving  that  they  were  none  of 
them  so  final  in  their  heroism  as  he.  No,  none  of 
them  reached  that  apex.  For  Hamlet  was  a  most 
unfinished  fellow,  and  Lear  extremely  violent. 
Pickwick  addicted  to  punch,  and  Sam  Weller  to 
lying;  Bazarof  actually  a  Nihilist,  and  Irina — ! 
Levin  and  Anna,  Pierre  and  Natasha,  all  of  them 
stormy  and  unsatisfactory  at  times.  "Un  Coeur 
Simple"  nothing  but  a  servant,  and  an  old  maid 
at  that;  "Saint  Julien  1'Hospitalier"  a  sheer 
fanatic.  Colonel  Newcome  too  irritable  and  too 

209 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

simple  altogether.  Don  Quixote  certified  insane. 
Hilda  Wangel,  Nora,  Hedda — Sir  Robert  would 
never  even  have  spoken  to  such  baggages!  Mon- 
sieur Bergeret — an  amiable  weak  thing!  D'Arta- 
gnan — a  true  swashbuckler!  Tom  Jones,  Faust, 
Don  Juan — we  might  not  even  think  of  them. 
And  those  poor  Greeks:  Prometheus — shocking 
rebel.  QEdipus — for  a  long  time  banished  by  the 
Censor.  Phaedra  and  Elektra,  not  even  so  virtu- 
ous as  Mary,  who  failed  of  being  what  she  should 
be!  And  coming  to  more  familiar  persons — 
Joseph  and  Moses,  David  and  Elijah,  all  of  them 
lacked  his  finality  of  true  heroism — none  could 
quite  pass  muster  beside  Sir  Robert.  .  .  .  Long 
we  meditated,  and,  reflecting  that  an  author  must 
ever  be  superior  to  the  creatures  of  his  brain,  were 
refreshed  to  think  that  there  were  so  many  living 
authors  capable  of  giving  birth  to  Sir  Robert;  for 
indeed,  Sir  Robert  and  finality  like  his — no  doubt- 
ful heroes,  no  flower  of  author,  and  no  mystery 
— is  what  mankind  at  large  has  always  wanted 
from  Letters,  and  will  always  want. 

As  truly  as  that  oil  and  water  do  not  mix,  there 
are  two  kinds  of  men.  The  main  cleavage  in  the 
whole  tale  of  life  is  this  subtle,  all-pervading  divi- 
sion of  mankind  into  the  man  of  facts  and  the 
man  of  feeling.  And  not  by  what  they  are  or  do 

210 


MEDITATION  ON  FINALITY 

can  they  be  told  one  from  the  other,  but  just 
by  their  attitude  toward  finality.  Fortunately 
most  of  us  are  neither  quite  the  one  nor  quite 
the  other.  But  between  the  pure-blooded  of 
each  kind  there  is  real  antipathy,  far  deeper 
than  the  antipathies  of  race,  politics,  or  religion— 
an  antipathy  that  not  circumstance,  love,  good- 
will, or  necessity  will  ever  quite  get  rid  of.  Sooner 
shall  the  panther  agree  with  the  bull  than  that 
other  one  with  the  man  of  facts.  There  is  no 
bridging  the  gorge  that  divides  these  worlds. 

Nor  is  it  so  easy  to  tell,  of  each,  to  which  world 
he  belongs,  as  it  was  to  place  the  lady,  who  held 
out  her  finger  over  that  gorge  called  Grand  Canyon, 
and  said: 

"It  doesn't  look  thirteen  miles;  but  they  meas- 
ured it  just  there !  Excuse  my  pointing ! " 

1912. 


211 


WANTED— SCHOOLING 

"T7*T  nous  jongleurs  inutiles,  frivoles  joueurs  de 
I  J  luth! "  .  .  .  Useless  jugglers,  frivolous  play- 
ers on  the  lute!  Must  we  so  describe  ourselves, 
we,  the  producers,  season  by  season,  of  so  many 
hundreds  of  "remarkable"  works  of  fiction? — for 
though,  when  we  take  up  the  remarkable  works  of 
our  fellows,  we  "really  cannot  read  them!"  the 
Press  and  the  advertisements  of  our  publishers  tell 
us  that  they  are  "remarkable." 

A  story  goes  that  once  in  the  twilight  under- 
growth of  a  forest  of  nut-bearing  trees  a  number  of 
little  purblind  creatures  wandered,  singing  for 
nuts.  On  some  of  these  purblind  creatures  the 
nuts  fell  heavy  and  full,  extremely  indigestible, 
and  were  quickly  swallowed;  on  others  they  fell 
light,  and  contained  nothing,  because  the  kernel 
had  already  been  eaten  up  above,  and  these  light 
and  kernel-less  nuts  were  accompanied  by  sibila- 
tions  or  laughter.  On  others  again  no  nuts  at  all, 
empty  or  full,  came  down.  But  nuts  or  no  nuts, 
full  nuts  or  empty  nuts,  the  purblind  creatures  be- 
low went  on  wandering  and  singing.  A  traveller 

212 


WANTED— SCHOOLING 

one  day  stopped  one  of  these  creatures  whose 
voice  was  peculiarly  disagreeable,  and  asked: 
"Why  do  you  sing  like  this?  Is  it  for  pleasure 
that  you  do  it,  or  for  pain?  What  do  you  get  out 
of  it?  Is  it  for  the  sake  of  those  up  there?  Is  it 
for  your  own  sake — for  the  sake  of  your  family — 
for  whose  sake?  Do  you  think  your  songs  worth 
listening  to?  Answer!" 

The  creature  scratched  itself,  and  sang  the  louder. 

"Ah!  Cacoethes!  I  pity,  but  do  not  blame  you, " 
said  the  traveller. 

He  left  the  creature,  and  presently  came  to  an- 
other which  sang  a  squeaky  treble  song.  It  wan- 
dered round  in  a  ring  under  a  grove  of  stunted 
trees,  and  the  traveller  noticed  that  it  never  went 
out  of  that  grove. 

"Is  it  really  necessary,"  he  said,  "for  you  to  ex- 
press yourself  thus?" 

And  as  he  spoke  showers  of  tiny  hard  nuts  came 
down  on  the  little  creature,  who  ate  them  greedily. 
The  traveller  opened  one;  it  was  extremely  small 
and  tasted  of  dry  rot. 

"Why,  at  all  events,"  he  said,  "need  you  stay 
under  these  trees?  the  nuts  are  not  good  here. " 

But  for  answer  the  little  creature  ran  round  and 
round,  and  round  and  round. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  traveller,  "small  bad  nuts 
213 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

are  better  than  no  bread;  if  you  went  out  of  this 
grove  you  would  starve?  " 

The  purblind  little  creature  shrieked.  The 
traveller  took  the  sound  for  affirmation,  and  passed 
on.  He  came  to  a  third  little  creature  who,  under 
a  tall  tree,  was  singing  very  loudly  indeed,  while 
all  around  was  a  great  silence,  broken  only  by 
sounds  like  the  snuffling  of  small  noses.  The 
creature  stopped  singing  as  the  traveller  came  up, 
and  at  once  a  storm  of  huge  nuts  came  down;  the 
traveller  found  them  sweetish  and  very  oily. 

"Why,"  he  said  to  the  creature,  "did  you  sing 
so  loud?  You  cannot  eat  all  these  nuts.  You 
really  do  sing  louder  than  seems  necessary;  come, 
answer  me! " 

But  the  purblind  little  creature  began  to  sing 
again  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  and  the  noise  of  the 
snuffling  of  small  noses  became  so  great  that  the 
traveller  hastened  away.  He  passed  many  other 
purblind  little  creatures  in  the  twilight  of  this 
forest,  till  at  last  he  came  to  one  that  looked  even 
blinder  than  the  rest,  but  whose  song  was  sweet  and 
low  and  clear,  breaking  a  perfect  stillness;  and  the 
traveller  sat  down  to  listen.  For  a  long  time  he 
listened  to  that  song  without  noticing  that  not  a 
nut  was  falling.  But  suddenly  he  heard  a  faint 
rustle  and  three  little  oval  nuts  lay  on  the  ground. 

214 


WANTED— SCHOOLING 

The  traveller  cracked  one  of  them.  It  was  of 
delicate  flavour.  He  looked  at  the  little  creature 
standing  with  its  face  raised,  and  said: 

"Tell  me,  little  blind  creature,  whose  song  is  so 
charming,  where  did  you  learn  to  sing?" 

The  little  creature  turned  its  head  a  trifle  to  one 
side  as  though  listening  for  the  fall  of  nuts. 

"Ah,  indeed!"  said  the  traveller:  "You,  whose 
voice  is  so  clear,  is  this  all  you  get  to  eat?" 

The  little  blind  creature  smiled.  .  .  . 

It  is  a  twilight  forest  in  which  we  writers  of  fic- 
tion wander,  and  once  in  a  way,  though  all  this 
has  been  said  before,  we  may  as  well  remind  our- 
selves and  others  why  the  light  is  so  dim;  why 
there  is  so  much  bad  and  false  fiction;  why  the  de- 
mand for  it  is  so  great.  Living  in  a  world  where 
demand  creates  supply,  we  writers  of  fiction  furnish 
the  exception  to  this  rule.  For,  consider  how,  as 
a  class,  we  come  into  existence.  Unlike  the  fol- 
lowers of  any  other  occupation,  nothing  whatever 
compels  any  one  of  us  to  serve  an  apprenticeship. 
We  go  to  no  school,  have  to  pass  no  examination, 
attain  no  standard,  receive  no  diploma.  We  need 
not  study  that  which  should  be  studied;  we  are  at 
liberty  to  flood  our  minds  with  all  that  should  not 
be  studied.  Like  mushrooms,  in  a  single  night  we 
spring  up — a  pen  in  our  hands,  very  little  in  our 
brains,  and  who-knows-what  in  our  hearts! 

215 


CONCERNING 

Few  of  us  sit  down  in  cold  blood  to  write  our 
first  stories;  we  have  something  in  us  that  we  feel 
we  must  express.  This  is  the  beginning  of  the 
vicious  circle.  Our  first  books  often  have  some- 
thing in  them.  We  are  sincere  in  trying  to  express 
that  something.  It  is  true  we  cannot  express  it, 
not  having  learnt  how,  but  its  ghost  haunts  the 
pages — the  ghost  of  real  experience  and  real  life — 
just  enough  to  attract  the  untrained  intelligence, 
just  enough  to  make  a  generous  Press  remark: 
"  This  shows  promise. "  We  have  tasted  blood,  we 
pant  for  more.  Those  of  us  who  had  a  carking 
occupation  hasten  to  throw  it  aside,  those  who  had 
no  occupation  have  now  found  one;  some  few  of 
us  keep  both  the  old  occupation  and  the  new. 
Whichever  of  these  courses  we  pursue,  the  hurry 
with  which  we  pursue  it  undoes  us.  For,  often  we 
have  only  that  one  book  in  us,  which  we  did  not 
know  how  to  write,  and  having  expressed  that 
which  we  have  felt,  we  are  driven  in  our  second,  our 
third,  our  fourth,  to  warm  up  variations,  like  those 
dressed  remains  of  last  night's  dinner  which  are 
served  for  lunch;  or  to  spin  from  our  usually  com- 
monplace imaginations  thin  extravagances  which 
those  who  do  not  try  to  think  for  themselves  are 
ever  ready  to  accept  as  full  of  inspiration  and 
vitality.  Anything  for  a  book,  we  say — anything 
for  a  book! 

216 


WANTED— SCHOOLING 

From  time  immemorial  we  have  acted  in  this 
immoral  manner,  till  we  have  accustomed  the 
Press  and  Public  to  expect  it.  From  time  imme- 
morial we  have  allowed  ourselves  to  be  driven 
by  those  powerful  drivers,  Bread,  and  Praise,  and 
cared  little  for  the  quality  of  either.  Sensibly, 
or  insensibly,  we  tune  our  songs  to  earn  the  nuts 
of  our  twilight  forest.  We  tune  them,  not  to  the 
key  of:  "Is  it  good?"  but  to  the  key  of:  "Will  it 
pay?"  and  at  each  tuning  the  nuts  fall  fast!  It  is 
all  so  natural.  How  can  we  help  it,  seeing  that 
we  are  undisciplined  and  standardless,  seeing 
that  we  started  without  the  backbone  that  school- 
ing gives?  Here  and  there  among  us  is  a  genius, 
here  and  there  a  man  of  exceptional  stability  who 
trains  himself  in  spite  of  all  the  forces  working  for 
his  destruction.  But  those  who  do  not  publish 
until  they  can  express,  and  do  not  express  until 
they  have  something  worth  expressing,  are  so  rare 
that  they  can  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  three  or 
perhaps  four  hands;  mercifully,  we  all — or  nearly 
all — believe  ourselves  of  that  company. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  say  that  the  public  will  have 
what  it  wants.  Certainly  the  Public  will  have  what 
it  wants  if  what  it  wants  is  given  to  the  Public. 
If  what  it  now  wants  were  suddenly  withdrawn, 
the  Public,  the  big  Public,  would  by  an  obvious 

217 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

natural  law  take  the  lowest  of  what  remained; 
if  that  again  were  withdrawn,  it  would  take  the 
next  lowest,  until  by  degrees  it  took  a  relatively 
good  article.  The  Public,  the  big  Public,  is  a 
mechanical  and  helpless  consumer  at  the  mercy  of 
what  is  supplied  to  it,  and  this  must  ever  be  so. 
The  Public  then  is  not  to  blame  for  the  supply  of 
bad,  false  fiction.  The  Press  is  not  to  blame,  for 
the  Press,  like  the  Public,  must  take  what  is  set 
before  it;  their  Critics,  for  the  most  part,  like  our- 
selves have  been  to  no  school,  passed  no  test  of 
fitness,  received  no  certificate;  they  cannot  lead 
us,  it  is  we  who  lead  them,  for  without  the  Critics 
we  could  live  but  without  us  the  Critics  would  die. 
We  cannot,  therefore,  blame  the  Press.  Nor  is 
the  Publisher  to  blame;  for  the  Publisher  will  pub- 
lish what  is  set  before  him.  It  is  true  that  if  he 
published  no  books  on  commission  he  would  de- 
serve the  praise  of  the  State,  but  it  is  quite  unrea- 
sonable for  us  to  expect  him  to  deserve  the  praise 
of  the  State,  since  it  is  we  who  supply  him  with 
these  books  and  incite  him  to  publish  them.  We 
cannot,  therefore,  lay  the  blame  on  the  Publisher. 
We  must  lay  the  blame  where  it  clearly  should 
be  laid,  on  ourselves.  We  ourselves  create  the 
demand  for  bad  and  false  fiction.  Very  many  of 
us  have  private  means;  for  such  there  is  no  excuse. 

218 


WANTED— SCHOOLING 

Very  many  of  us  have  none;  for  such,  once  started 
on  this  journey  of  fiction,  there  is  much,  often 
tragic,  excuse — the  less  reason  then  for  not  having 
trained  ourselves  before  setting  out  on  our  way. 
There  is  no  getting  out  of  it;  the  fault  is  ours.  If 
we  will  not  put  ourselves  to  school  when  we  are 
young;  if  we  must  rush  into  print  before  we  can 
spell;  if  we  will  not  repress  our  natural  desires  and 
walk  before  we  run;  if  we  will  not  learn  at  least 
what  not  to  do — we  shall  go  on  wandering  through 
the  forest,  singing  our  foolish  songs. 

And  since  we  cannot  train  ourselves  except  by 
writing,  let  us  write,  and  burn  what  we  write;  then 
shall  we  soon  stop  writing,  or  produce  what  we 
need  not  burn! 

For,  as  things  are  now,  without  compass,  with- 
out map,  we  set  out  into  the  twilight  forest  of  fic- 
tion; without  path,  without  track — and  we  never 
emerge. 

Yes,  with  the  French  writer,  we  must  say: 

"Et  nous  jongleurs  inutiles,  frivoles  joueurs  de 
luth!"  .  .  . 

1906. 


219 


REFLECTIONS  ON  OUR  DISLIKE  OF 
THINGS  AS  THEY  ARE 

YES!  Why  is  this  the  chief  characteristic  of 
our  art?  What  secret  instincts  are  respon- 
sible for  this  inveterate  distaste?  But,  first,  is  it 
true  that  we  have  it? 

To  stand  still  and  look  at  a  thing  for  the  joy  of 
looking,  without  reference  to  any  material  ad- 
vantage, and  personal  benefit,  either  to  ourselves 
or  our  neighbours,  just  simply  to  indulge  our  curi- 
osity !  Is  that  a  British  habit?  I  think  not. 

If,  on  some  November  afternoon,  we  walk  into 
Kensington  Gardens,  where  they  join  the  Park  on 
the  Bayswater  side,  and,  crossing  in  front  of  the 
ornamental  fountain,  glance  at  the  semicircular 
seat  let  into  a  dismal  little  Temple  of  the  Sun, 
we  shall  see  a  half-moon  of  apathetic  figures. 
There,  enjoying  a  moment  of  lugubrious  idleness, 
may  be  sitting  an  old  countrywoman  with  steady 
eyes  in  a  lean,  dusty-black  dress  and  an  old  poke- 
bonnet;  by  her  side,  some  gin-faced  creature  of 
the  town,  all  blousy  and  draggled;  a  hollow-eyed 
foreigner,  far  gone  in  consumption;  a  bronzed 

220 


REFLECTIONS 

young  navvy,  asleep,  with  his  muddy  boots  jut- 
ting straight  out;  a  bearded,  dreary  being,  chin  on 
chest;  and  more  consumptives,  and  more  vaga- 
bonds, and  more  people  dead-tired,  speechless, 
and  staring  before  them  from  that  crescent-shaped 
haven  where  there  is  no  draught  at  their  backs, 
and  the  sun  occasionally  shines.  And  as  we  look 
at  them,  according  to  the  state  of  our  temper,  we 
think:  Poor  creatures,  I  wish  I  could  do  something 
for  them!  or:  Revolting!  They  oughtn't  to  allow 
it!  But  do  we  feel  any  pleasure  in  just  watching 
them;  any  of  that  intimate  sensation  a  cat  enter- 
tains when  its  back  is  being  rubbed;  are  we  curi- 
ously enjoying  the  sight  of  these  people,  simply 
as  manifestations  of  life,  as  objects  fashioned  by 
the  ebb  and  flow  of  its  tides?  Again,  I  think,  not. 
And  why?  Either,  because  we  have  instantly  felt 
that  we  ought  to  do  something;  that  here  is  a  dan- 
ger in  our  midst,  which  one  day  might  affect  our 
own  security;  and  at  all  events,  a  sight  revolt- 
ing to  us  who  came  out  to  look  at  this  remarkably 
fine  fountain.  Or,  because  we  are  too  humane! 
Though  very  possibly  that  frequent  murmur- 
ing of  ours:  Ah!  It's  too  sad!  is  but  another 
way  of  putting  the  words:  Stand  aside,  please, 
you're  too  depressing!  Or,  again,  is  it  that  we 
avoid  the  sight  of  things  as  they  are,  avoid  the 

221 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

unedifying,  because  of  what  may  be  called  "the 
uncreative  instinct/'  that  safeguard  and  concom- 
itant of  a  civilisation  which  demands  of  us  com- 
plete efficiency,  practical  and  thorough  employ- 
ment of  every  second  of  our  time  and  every  inch 
of  our  space?  We  know,  of  course,  that  out  of 
nothing  nothing  can  be  made,  that  to  "create" 
anything  a  man  must  first  receive  impressions,  and 
that  to  receive  impressions  requires  an  apparatus 
of  nerves  and  feelers,  exposed  and  quivering  to 
every  vibration  round  it,  an  apparatus  so  entirely 
opposed  to  our  national  spirit  and  traditions  that 
the  bare  thought  of  it  causes  us  to  blush.  A  ro- 
bust recognition  of  this,  a  steadfast  resolve  not  to 
be  forced  out  of  the  current  of  strenuous  civilisa- 
tion into  the  sleepy  backwater  of  pure  impression- 
ism, makes  us  distrustful  of  attempts  to  foster 
in  ourselves  that  receptivity  and  subsequent  crea- 
tiveness,  the  microbes  of  which  exist  in  every  man. 
To  watch  a  thing  simply  because  it  is  a  thing, 
entirely  without  considering  how  it  can  affect  us, 
and  without  even  seeing  at  the  moment  how  we 
are  to  get  anything  out  of  it,  jars  our  consciences, 
jars  that  inner  feeling  which  keeps  secure  and 
makes  harmonious  the  whole  concert  of  our  lives, 
for  we  feel  it  to  be  a  waste  of  time,  dangerous  to 
the  community,  contributing  neither  to  our  meat 

222 


REFLECTIONS 

and  drink,  our  clothes  and  comfort,  nor  to  the 
stability  and  order  of  our  lives. 

Of  these  three  possible  reasons  for  our  dislike 
of  things  as  they  are,  the  first  two  are  perhaps 
contained  within  the  third.  But,  to  whatever 
our  dislike  is  due,  we  have  it — Oh!  we  have  it! 
With  the  possible  exception  of  Hogarth  in  his  non- 
preaching  pictures,  and  Constable  in  his  sketches 
of  the  sky, — I  speak  of  dead  men  only, — have  we 
produced  any  painter  of  reality  like  Manet  or 
Millet,  any  writer  like  Flaubert  or  Maupassant, 
like  Turgenev,  or  Tchekov.  We  are,  I  think,  too 
deeply  civilised,  so  deeply  civilised  that  we  have 
come  to  look  on  Nature  as  indecent.  The  acts 
and  emotions  of  life  undraped  with  ethics  seem  to 
us  anathema.  It  has  long  been,  and  still  is,  the 
fashion  among  the  intellectuals  of  the  Continent  to 
regard  us  as  barbarians  in  most  aesthetic  matters. 
Ah!  If  they  only  knew  how  infinitely  barbarous 
they  seem  to  us  hi  their  naive  contempt  of  our  bar- 
barism, and  in  what  we  regard  as  their  infantine 
concern  with  things  as  they  are.  How  far  have  we 
not  gone  past  all  that — we  of  the  oldest  settled 
Western  country,  who  have  so  veneered  our  lives 
that  we  no  longer  know  of  what  wood  they  are 
made!  Whom  generations  have  so  soaked  with 
the  preserve  "good  form"  that  we  are  impervious 

223 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

to  the  claims  and  clamour  of  that  ill-bred  creature 
— life!  Who  think  it  either  dreadful,  or  vieux  jeu, 
that  such  things  as  the  crude  emotions  and  the  raw 
struggles  of  Fate  should  be  even  mentioned,  much 
less  presented  in  terms  of  art!  For  whom  an 
artist  is '  suspect '  if  he  is  not,  in  his  work,  a  sports- 
man and  a  gentleman?  Who  shake  a  solemn  head 
over  writers  who  will  treat  of  sex;  and,  with  the 
remark:  "Worst  of  it  is,  there's  so  much  truth  in 
those  fellows!"  close  the  book. 

Ah!  well!  I  suppose  we  have  been  too  long 
familiar  with  the  unprofitableness  of  speculation, 
have  surrendered  too  definitely  to  action — to  the 
material  side  of  things,  retaining  for  what  relaxa- 
tion our  spirits  may  require,  a  habit  of  sentimental 
aspiration,  carefully  divorced  from  things  as  they 
are.  We  seem  to  have  decided  that  things  are 
not,  or,  if  they  are,  ought  not  to  be — and  what  is 
the  good  of  thinking  of  things  like  that?  In  fact, 
our  national  ideal  has  become  the  Will  to  Health, 
to  Material  Efficiency,  and  to  it  we  have  sacrificed 
the  Will  to  Sensibility.  It  is  a  point  of  view.  And 
yet — to  the  philosophy  that  craves  Perfection,  to 
the  spirit  that  desires  the  golden  mean,  and  hank- 
ers for  the  serene  and  balanced  seat  in  the  centre 
of  the  see-saw,  it  seems  a  little  pitiful,  and  con- 
stricted; a  confession  of  defeat,  a  hedging  and 

224 


REFLECTIONS 

limitation  of  the  soul.  Need  we  put  up  with  this, 
must  we  for  ever  turn  our  eyes  away  from  things 
as  they  are,  stifle  our  imaginations  and  our  sensi- 
bilities, for  fear  that  they  should  become  our  mas- 
ters, and  destroy  our  sanity?  This  is  the  eternal 
question  that  confronts  the  artist  and  the  thinker. 
Because  of  the  inevitable  decline  after  full  flower- 
ing-point is  reached,  the  inevitable  fading  of  the 
fire  that  follows  the  full  flame  and  glow,  are  we 
to  recoil  from  striving  to  reach  the  perfect  and 
harmonious  climacteric?  Better  to  have  loved 
and  lost,  I  think,  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all; 
better  to  reach  out  and  grasp  the  fullest  expres- 
sion of  the  individual  and  the  national  soul,  than 
to  keep  for  ever  under  the  shelter  of  the  wall.  I 
would  even  think  it  possible  to  be  sensitive  with- 
out neurasthenia,  to  be  sympathetic  without  in- 
sanity, to  be  alive  to  all  the  winds  that  blow  with- 
out getting  influenza.  God  forbid  that  our  Letters 
and  our  Arts  should  decade  into  Beardsleyism; 
but  between  that  and  their  present  "health" 
there  lies  full  flowering-point,  not  yet,  by  a  long 
way,  reached. 

To  flower  like  that,  I  suspect,  we  must  see  things 
just  a  little  more — as  they  are! 

1905-1912. 


225 


THE  WINDLESTRAW 

A  CERTAIN  writer,  returning  one  afternoon 
2jL  from  rehearsal  of  his  play,  sat  down  in  the 
hall  of  the  hotel  where  he  was  staying.  "No," 
he  reflected,  "this  play  of  mine  will  not  please  the 
Public;  it  is  gloomy,  almost  terrible.  This  very 
day  I  read  these  words  in  my  morning  paper: 
'No  artist  can  afford  to  despise  his  Public,  for, 
whether  he  confesses  it  or  not,  the  artist  exists  to 
give  the  Public  what  it  wants/  I  have,  then,  not 
only  done  what  I  cannot  afford  to  do,  but  I  have 
been  false  to  the  reason  of  my  existence." 

The  hall  was  full  of  people,  for  it  was  the  hour 
of  tea;  and  looking  round  him,  the  writer  thought : 
"And  this  is  the  Public — the  Public  that  my  play 
is  destined  not  to  please!"  And  for  several  min- 
utes he  looked  at  them  as  if  he  had  been  hypno- 
tised. Presently,  between  two  tables  he  noticed 
a  waiter  standing,  lost  in  his  thoughts.  The  mask 
of  the  man's  professional  civility  had  come  awry, 
and  the  expression  of  his  face  and  figure  was  curi- 
ously remote  from  the  faces  and  forms  of  those 
from  whom  he  had  been  taking  orders;  he  seemed 

226 


THE  WINDLESTRAW 

like  a  bird  discovered  in  its  own  haunts,  all  un- 
conscious as  yet  of  human  eyes.  And  the  writer 
thought:  "But  if  those  people  at  the  tables  are 
the  Public,  what  is  that  waiter?  How  if  I  was 
mistaken,  and  not  they,  but  he  were  the  real  Pub- 
lic?" And  testing  this  thought,  his  mind  began 
at  once  to  range  over  all  the  people  he  had  lately 
seen.  He  thought  of  the  Founder's  Day  dinner 
of  a  great  School,  which  he  had  attended  the  night 
before.  "No,"  he  mused,  "I  see  very  little  re- 
semblance between  the  men  at  that  dinner  and 
the  men  in  this  hall;  still  less  between  them  and 
the  waiter.  How  if  they  were  the  real  Public, 
and  neither  the  waiter,  nor  these  people  here!" 
But  no  sooner  had  he  made  this  reflection,  than 
he  bethought  him  of  a  gathering  of  workers  whom 
he  had  watched  two  days  ago.  "Again,"  he 
mused,  "I  do  not  recollect  any  resemblance  at  all 
between  those  workers  and  the  men  at  the  dinner, 
and  certainly  they  are  not  like  any  one  here.  What 
if  those  workers  are  the  real  Public,  not  the  men 
at  the  dinner,  nor  the  waiter,  nor  the  people  in 
this  hall!"  And  thereupon  his  mind  flew  off 
again,  and  this  time  rested  on  the  figures  of  his 
own  immediate  circle  of  friends.  They  seemed 
very  different  from  the  four  real  Publics  whom 
he  had  as  yet  discovered.  "Yes,"  he  considered, 

227 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

"when  I  come  to  think  of  it,  my  associates — 
painters,  and  writers,  and  critics,  and  all  that  kind 
of  person — do  not  seem  to  have  anything  to  speak 
of  in  common  with  any  of  these  people.  Perhaps 
my  own  associates,  then,  are  the  real  Public,  and 
not  these  others!"  Perceiving  that  this  would  be 
the  fifth  real  Public,  he  felt  discouraged.  But 
presently  he  began  to  think:  "The  past  is  the 
past  and  cannot  be  undone,  and  with  this  play  of 
mine  I  shall  not  please  the  Public;  but  there  is 
always  the  future!  Now,  I  do  not  wish  to  do 
what  the  artist  cannot  afford  to  do,  I  earnestly 
desire  to  be  true  to  the  reason  of  my  existence; 
and  since  the  reason  of  that  existence  is  to  give 
the  Public  what  it  wants,  it  is  really  vital  to  dis- 
cover who  and  what  the  Public  is!"  And  he  be- 
gan to  look  very  closely  at  the  faces  around  him, 
hoping  to  find  out  from  types  what  he  had  failed 
to  ascertain  from  classes.  Two  men  were  sitting 
near,  one  on  each  side  of  a  woman.  The  first, 
who  was  all  crumpled  in  his  arm-chair,  had  curly 
lips  and  wrinkles  round  the  eyes,  cheeks  at  once 
rather  fat  and  rather  shadowy,  and  a  dimple  in 
his  chin.  It  seemed  certain  that  he  was  hu- 
mourous, and  kind,  sympathetic,  rather  diffident, 
speculative,  moderately  intelligent,  with  the  rudi- 
ments perhaps  of  an  imagination.  And  he  looked 

228 


THE  WINDLESTRAW 

at  the  second  man,  who  was  sitting  very  upright, 
as  if  he  had  a  particularly  fine  backbone,  of  which 
he  was  not  a  little  proud.  He  was  extremely  big 
and  handsome,  with  pronounced  and  regular  nose 
and  chin,  firm,  well-cut  lips  beneath  a  smooth 
moustache,  direct  and  rather  insolent  eyes,  a  some- 
what receding  forehead,  and  an  air  of  mastery 
over  all  around.  It  was  obvious  that  he  possessed 
a  complete  knowledge  of  his  own  mind,  some 
brutality,  much  practical  intelligence,  great  reso- 
lution, no  imagination,  and  plenty  of  conceit. 
And  he  looked  at  the  woman.  She  was  pretty, 
but  her  face  was  vapid,  and  seemed  to  have  no 
character  at  all.  And  from  one  to  the  other  he 
looked,  and  the  more  he  looked  the  less  resem- 
blance he  saw  between  them,  till  the  objects  of  his 
scrutiny  grew  restive.  Then,  ceasing  to  examine 
them,  an  idea  came  to  him.  "No!  The  Public 
is  not  this  or  that  class,  this  or  that  type;  the 
Public  is  an  hypothetical  average  human  being, 
endowed  with  average  human  qualities — a  dis- 
tillation, in  fact,  of  all  the  people  in  this  hall, 
the  people  in  the  street  outside,  the  people  of  this 
country  everywhere. "  And  for  a  moment  he  was 
pleased;  but  soon  he  began  again  to  feel  uneasy. 
"Since,"  he  reflected,  "it  is  necessary  for  me 
to  supply  this  hypothetical  average  human  being 

229 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

with  what  he  wants,  I  shall  have  to  find  out  how 
to  distil  him  from  all  the  ingredients  around  me. 
Now  how  am  I  to  do  that?  It  will  certainly  take 
me  more  than  all  my  life  to  collect  and  boil  the 
souls  of  all  of  them,  which  is  necessary  if  I  am  to 
extract  the  genuine  article,  and  I  should  then 
apparently  have  no  time  left  to  supply  the  pre- 
cipitated spirit,  when  I  had  obtained  it,  with  what 
it  wanted!  Yet  this  hypothetical  average  human 
being  must  be  found,  or  I  must  stay  for  ever 
haunted  by  the  thought  that  I  am  not  supplying 
him  with  what  he  wants!"  And  the  writer  be- 
came more  and  more  discouraged,  for  to  arrogate 
to  himself  knowledge  of  all  the  heights  and  depths, 
and  even  of  all  the  virtues  and  vices,  tastes  and 
dislikes  of  all  the  people  of  the  country,  without 
having  first  obtained  it,  seemed  to  him  to  savour 
of  insolence.  And  still  more  did  it  appear  im- 
pertinent, having  taken  this  mass  of  knowledge 
which  he  had  not  got,  to  extract  from  it  a  golden- 
mean  man,  in  order  to  supply  him  with  what  he 
wanted.  And  yet  this  was  what  every  artist  did 
who  justified  his  existence — or  it  would  not  have 
been  so  stated  in  a  newspaper.  And  he  gazed  up 
at  the  lofty  ceiling,  as  if  he  might  perchance  see 
the  Public  flying  up  there  in  the  faint  bluish 
mist  of  smoke.  And  suddenly  he  thought :  "Sup- 

230 


THE  WINDLESTRAW 

pose,  by  some  miracle,  my  golden-mean  bird  came 
flying  to  me  with  its  beak  open  for  the  food  with 
which  it  is  my  duty  to  supply  it — would  it  after 
all  be  such  a  very  strange-looking  creature;  would 
it  not  be  extremely  like  my  normal  self?  Am  I 
not,  in  fact,  myself  the  Public?  For,  without  the 
strongest  and  most  reprehensible  conceit,  can  I 
claim  for  my  normal  self  a  single  attribute  or 
quality  not  possessed  by  an  hypothetical  average 
human  being?  Yes,  I  am  myself  the  Public;  or 
at  all  events  all  that  my  consciousness  can  ever 
know  of  it  for  certain. "  And  he  began  to  consider 
deeply.  For  sitting  there  in  cold  blood,  with  his 
nerves  at  rest,  and  his  brain  and  senses  normal, 
the  play  he  had  written  did  seem  to  him  to  put  an 
unnecessary  strain  upon  the  faculties.  "Ah!"  he 
thought,  "in  future  I  must  take  good  care  never 
to  write  anything  except  in  cold  blood,  with  my 
nerves  well  clothed,  and  my  brain  and  senses 
quiet.  I  ought  only  to  write  when  I  feel  as  normal 
as  I  do  now. "  And  for  some  minutes  he  remained 
motionless,  looking  at  his  boots.  Then  there 
crept  into  his  mind  an  uncomfortable  thought. 
"But  have  I  ever  written  anything  without  feel- 
ing a  little — abnormal,  at  the  time?  Have  I  ever 
even  felt  inclined  to  write  anything,  until  my  emo- 
tions had  been  unduly  excited,  my  brain  immoder- 

231 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

ately  stirred,  my  senses  unusually  quickened,  or 
my  spirit  extravagantly  roused?  Never!  Alas, 
never!  I  am  then  a  miserable  renegade,  false 
to  the  whole  purpose  of  my  being — nor  do  I  see 
the  slightest  hope  of  becoming  a  better  man,  a  less 
unworthy  artist!  For  I  literally  cannot  write 
without  the  stimulus  of  some  feeling  exaggerated 
at  the  expense  of  other  feelings.  What  has  been 
in  the  past  will  be  in  the  future:  I  shall  never  be 
taking  up  my  pen  when  I  feel  my  comfortable  and 
normal  self — never  be  satisfying  that  self  which 
is  the  Public!"  And  he  thought:  "I  am  lost. 
For,  to  satisfy  that  normal  self,  to  give  the  Public 
what  it  wants,  is,  I  am  told,  and  therefore  must  be- 
lieve, what  all  artists  exist  for.  JSschylus  in  his 
'Choephorse'  and  his  'Prometheus';  Sophocles 
in  his  '(Edipus  Tyrannus';  Euripides  when  he 
wrote  'The  Trojan  Women/  'Medea/  and 
'Hippolytus';  Shakespeare  in  his 'Lear7;  Goethe 
in  his  'Faust';  Ibsen  in  his  'Ghosts'  and  his 
'Peer  Gynt';  Tolstoy  in  'The  Powers  of  Dark- 
ness'; all — all  in  those  great  works,  must  have 
satisfied  their  most  comfortable  and  normal  selves; 
all — all  must  have  given  to  the  average  human  be- 
ing, to  the  Public,  what  it  wants;  for  to  do  that, 
we  know,  was  the  reason  of  their  existence,  and 
who  shall  say  those  noble  artists  were  not  true  to 

232 


THE  WINDLESTRAW 

it?  That  is  surely  unthinkable.  And  yet — and 
yet — we  are  assured,  and,  indeed,  it  is  true,  that 
there  is  no  real  Public  in  this  country  for  just  those 
plays !  Therefore  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  Euripides, 
Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Ibsen,  Tolstoy,  in  their 
greatest  works  did  not  give  the  Public  what  it 
wants,  did  not  satisfy  the  average  human  being, 
their  more  comfortable  and  normal  selves,  and  as 
artists  were  not  true  to  the  reason  of  their 
existence.  Therefore  they  were  not  artists,  which 
is  unthinkable;  therefore  I  have  not  yet  found  the 
Public!'7 

And  perceiving  that  in  this  impasse  his  last  hope 
of  discovery  had  foundered,  the  writer  let  his  head 
fall  on  his  chest. 

But  even  as  he  did  so  a  gleam  of  light,  like  a 
faint  moonbeam,  stole  out  into  the  garden  of  his 
despair.  "Is  it  possible,"  he  thought,  "that, 
by  a  writer,  until  his  play  has  been  performed 
(when,  alas!  it  is  too  late),  'the  Public'  is  incon- 
ceivable— in  fact  that  for  him  there  is  no  such 
thing?  But  if  there  be  no  such  thing,  I  cannot 
exist  to  give  it  what  it  wants.  What  then  is 
the  reason  of  my  existence?  Am  I  but  a  windle- 
straw?"  And  wearied  out  with  his  perplexity,  he 
fell  into  a  doze.  And  while  he  dozed  he  dreamed 
that  he  saw  the  figure  of  a  woman  standing  in 

233 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

darkness,  from  whose  face  and  form  came  a  misty 
refulgence,  such  as  steals  out  into  the  dusk  from 
white  campion  flowers  along  summer  hedgerows. 
She  was  holding  her  pale  hands  before  her,  wide 
apart,  with  the  palms  turned  down,  quivering  as 
might  doves  about  to  settle;  and  for  all  it  was  so 
dark,  her  grey  eyes  were  visible — full  of  light, 
with  black  rims  round  the  irises.  To  gaze  at  those 
eyes  was  almost  painful;  for  though  they  were 
beautiful,  they  seemed  to  see  right  through  his 
soul,  to  pass  him  by,  as  though  on  a  far  discovering 
voyage,  and  forbidden  to  rest. 

The  dreamer  spoke  to  her:  "Who  are  you, 
standing  there  in  the  darkness  with  those  eyes  that 
I  can  hardly  bear  to  look  at?  Who  are  you?  " 

And  the  woman  answered:  "Friend,  I  am 
your  Conscience;  I  am  the  Truth  as  best  it  may  be 
seen  by  you.  I  am  she  whom  you  exist  to  serve. " 
With  those  words  she  vanished,  and  the  writer 
woke.  A  boy  was  standing  before  him  with  the 
evening  papers. 

To  cover  his  confusion  at  being  caught  asleep 
he  purchased  one  and  began  to  read  a  leading 
article.  It  commenced  with  these  words:  "There 
are  certain  playwrights  taking  themselves  very 
seriously;  might  we  suggest  to  them  that  they  are 
in  danger  of  becoming  ridiculous.  .  ,  . " 

234 


THE  WINDLESTRAW 

The  writer  let  fall  his  hand,  and  the  paper  flut- 
tered to  the  ground.  "The  Public,"  he  thought, 
"I  am  not  able  to  take  seriously,  because  I  cannot 
conceive  what  it  may  be;  myself,  my  conscience, 
I  am  told  I  must  not  take  seriously,  or  I  become 
ridiculous.  Yes,  I  am  indeed  lost!" 

And  with  a  feeling  of  elation,  as  of  a  straw  blown 
on  every  wind,  he  arose. 

1910. 


235 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

SINCE,  time  and  again,  it  has  been  proved,  in 
this  country  of  free  institutions,  that  the 
great  majority  of  our  fellow-countrymen  consider 
the  only  Censorship  that  now  obtains  amongst  us, 
namely  the  Censorship  of  Plays,  a  bulwark  for 
the  preservation  of  their  comfort  and  sensibility 
against  the  spiritual  researches  and  speculations 
of  bolder  and  too  active  spirits — it  has  become 
time  to  consider  whether  we  should  not  seriously 
extend  a  principle,  so  grateful  to  the  majority,  to 
all  our  institutions. 

For  no  one  can  deny  that  in  practice  the  Censor- 
ship of  Drama  works  with  a  smooth  swiftness — a 
lack  of  delay  and  friction  unexampled  in  any  pub- 
lic office.  No  troublesome  publicity  and  tedious 
postponement  for  the  purpose  of  appeal  mar  its 
efficiency.  It  is  neither  hampered  by  the  Law  nor 
by  the  slow  process  of  popular  election.  Wel- 
comed by  the  overwhelming  majority  of  the  public ; 
objected  to  only  by  such  persons  as  suffer  from  it, 
and  a  negligible  faction,  who,  wedded  pedantically 
to  liberty  of  the  subject,  are  resentful  of  summary 

236 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

powers  vested  in  a  single  person  responsible  only 
to  his  own  conscience — it  is  amazingly,  triumph- 
antly, successful. 

Why,  then,  in  a  democratic  State,  is  so  valuable 
a  protector  of  the  will,  the  interests,  and'  pleasure 
of  the  majority  not  bestowed  on  other  branches  of 
the  public  being?  Opponents  of  the  Censorship 
of  Plays  have  been  led  by  the  absence  of  such  other 
Censorships  to  conclude  that  this  Office  is  an 
archaic  survival,  persisting  into  times  that  have 
outgrown  it.  They  have  been  known  to  allege 
that  the  reason  of  its  survival  is  simply  the  fact 
that  Dramatic  Authors,  whose  reputation  and 
means  of  livelihood  it  threatens,  have  ever  been  few 
in  number  and  poorly  organised — that  the  reason, 
in  short,  is  the  helplessness  and  weakness  of  the 
interests  concerned.  We  must  all  combat  with 
force  such  an  aspersion  on  our  Legislature.  Can 
it  even  for  a  second  be  supposed  that  a  State  which 
gives  trial  by  Jury  to  the  meanest,  poorest,  most 
helpless  of  its  citizens,  and  concedes  to  the  great- 
est criminals  the  right  of  appeal,  could  have  de- 
barred a  body  of  reputable  men  from  the  ordinary 
rights  of  citizenship  for  so  cynical  a  reason  as  that 
their  numbers  were  small,  their  interests  unjoined, 
their  protests  feeble?  Such  a  supposition  were 
intolerable!  We  do  not  in  this  country  deprive 

237 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

a  class  of  citizens  of  their  ordinary  rights,  we  do 
not  place  their  produce  under  the  irresponsible 
control  of  one  not  amenable  to  Law,  by  any  sort 
of  political  accident!  That  would  indeed  be  to 
laugh  at  Justice  in  this  Kingdom!  That  would 
indeed  be  cynical  and  unsound!  We  must  never 
admit  that  there  is  no  basic  Justice  controlling 
the  edifice  of  our  Civic  Rights.  We  do,  we  must, 
conclude  that  a  just  and  well-considered  principle 
underlies  this  despotic  Institution;  for  surely, 
else,  it  would  not  be  suffered  to  survive  for  a 
single  moment!  Pom!  Pom! 

If,  then,  the  Censorship  of  Plays  be  just,  benef- 
icent, and  based  on  a  well-considered  principle, 
we  must  rightly  inquire  what  good  and  logical 
reason  there  is  for  the  absence  of  Censorship  in 
other  departments  of  the  national  Me.  If  Censor- 
ship of  the  Drama  be  in  the  real  interests  of  the 
people,  or  at  all  events  in  what  the  Censor  for  the 
time  being  conceives  to  be  their  interest — then 
Censorships  of  Art,  Literature,  Religion,  Science, 
and  Politics  are  in  the  interests  of  the  people,  un- 
less it  can  be  proved  that  there  exists  essential  dif- 
ference between  the  Drama  and  these  other 
branches  of  the  public  being.  Let  us  consider 
whether  there  is  any  such  essential  difference. 

It  is  fact,  beyond  dispute,  that  every  year  num~ 
238 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

bers  of  books  appear  which  strain  the  average  read- 
er's intelligence  and  sensibilities  to  an  unendurable 
extent;  books  whose  speculations  are  totally  un- 
suited  to  normal  thinking  powers;  books  which 
contain  views  of  morality  divergent  from  the  cus- 
tomary, and  discussions  of  themes  unsuited  to  the 
young  person;  books  which,  in  fine,  provide  the 
greater  Public  with  no  pleasure  whatsoever,  and, 
either  by  harrowing  their  feelings  or  offending 
then-  good  taste,  cause  them  real  pain. 

It  is  true  that,  precisely  as  in  the  case  of  Plays, 
the  Public  are  protected  by  a  vigilant  and  critical 
Press  from  works  of  this  description;  that,  further, 
they  are  protected  by  the  commercial  instinct  of 
the  Libraries,  who  will  not  stock  an  article  which 
may  offend  their  customers — just  as,  in  the  case 
of  Plays,  the  Public  are  protected  by  the  com- 
mon-sense of  theatrical  Managers;  that,  finally, 
they  are  protected  by  the  Police  and  the  Common 
Law  of  the  land.  But  despite  all  these  protections, 
it  is  no  uncommon  thing  for  an  average  citizen  to 
purchase  one  of  these  disturbing  or  dubious  books. 
Has  he,  on  discovering  its  true  nature,  the  right 
to  call  on  the  bookseller  to  refund  its  value?  He 
has  not.  And  thus  he  runs  a  danger  obviated  in 
the  case  of  the  Drama  which  has  the  protection 
of  a  prudential  Censorship.  For  this  reason  alone, 

239 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

how  much  better,  then,  that  there  should  exist  a 
paternal  authority  (some,  no  doubt,  will  call  it 
grand-maternal — but  sneers  must  not  be  con- 
founded with  argument)  to  suppress  these  books 
before  appearance,  and  safeguard  us  from  the 
danger  of  buying  and  possibly  reading  undesirable 
or  painful  literature! 

A  specious  reason,  however,  is  advanced  for  ex- 
empting Literature  from  the  Censorship  accorded 
to  Plays.  He — it  is  said — who  attends  the  per- 
formance of  a  play,  attends  it  in  public,  where  his 
feelings  may  be  harrowed  and  his  taste  offended, 
cheek  by  jowl  with  boys,  or  women  of  all  ages;  it 
may  even  chance  that  he  has  taken  to  this  enter- 
tainment his  wife,  or  the  young  persons  of  his 
household.  He — on  the  other  hand — who  reads 
a  book,  reads  it  in  privacy.  True ;  but  the  wielder 
of  this  argument  has  clasped  his  fingers  round  a 
two-edged  blade.  The  very  fact  that  the  book 
has  no  mixed  audience  removes  from  Literature  an 
element  which  is  ever  the  greatest  check  on  licen- 
tiousness in  Drama.  No  manager  of  a  theatre, — 
a  man  of  the  world  engaged  in  the  acquisition  of 
his  livelihood, — unless  guaranteed  by  the  license 
of  the  Censor,  dare  risk  the  presentment  before 
a  mixed  audience  of  that  which  might  cause  an 
emeute  among  his  clients.  It  has,  indeed,  always 

240 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

been  observed  that  the  theatrical  manager,  almost 
without  exception,  thoughtfully  recoils  from  the 
responsibility  that  would  be  thrust  on  him  by  the 
abolition  of  the  Censorship.  The  fear  of  the  mixed 
audience  is  ever  suspended  above  his  head.  No 
such  fear  threatens  the  publisher,  who  displays 
his  wares  to  one  man  at  a  time.  And  for  this 
very  reason  of  the  mixed  audience,  perpetually  and 
perversely  cited  to  the  contrary  by  such  as  have 
no  firm  grasp  of  this  matter,  there  is  a  greater 
necessity  for  a  Censorship  on  Literature  than  for 
one  on  Plays. 

Further,  if  there  were  but  a  Censorship  of  Litera- 
ture, no  matter  how  dubious  the  books  that  were 
allowed  to  pass,  the  conscience  of  no  reader  need 
ever  be  troubled.  For,  that  the  perfect  rest  of  the 
public  conscience  is  the  first  result  of  Censorship, 
is  proved  to  certainty  by  the  protected  Drama, 
since  many  dubious  plays  are  yearly  put  before 
the  play-going  Public  without  tending  in  any  way 
to  disturb  a  complacency  engendered  by  the 
security  from  harm  guaranteed  by  this  beneficent, 
if  despotic,  Institution.  Pundits  who,  to  the  dis- 
comfort of  the  populace,  foster  this  exemption  of 
Literature  from  discipline,  cling  to  the  old- 
fashioned  notion  that  ulcers  should  be  encouraged 
to  discharge  themselves  upon  the  surface,  instead 

241 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

of  being  quietly  and  decently  driven  into  the 
system  and  allowed  to  fester  there. 

The  remaining  plea  for  exempting  Literature 
from  Censorship,  put  forward  by  unreflecting  per- 
sons: That  it  would  require  too  many  Censors 
— besides  being  unworthy,  is,  on  the  face  of  it, 
erroneous.  Special  tests  have  never  been  thought 
necessary  in  appointing  Examiners  of  Plays. 
They  would,  indeed,  not  only  be  unnecessary,  but 
positively  dangerous,  seeing  that  the  essential 
function  of  Censorship  is  protection  of  the  ordi- 
nary prejudices  and  forms  of  thought.  There 
would,  then,  be  no  difficulty  in  securing  to- 
morrow as  many  Censors  of  Literature  as  might 
be  necessary  (say  twenty  or  thirty) ;  since  all  that 
would  be  required  of  each  one  of  them  would  be 
that  he  should  secretly  exercise,  in  his  uncon- 
trolled discretion,  his  individual  taste.  In  a  word, 
this  Free  Literature  of  ours  protects  advancing 
thought  and  speculation;  and  those  who  believe 
in  civic  freedom  subject  only  to  Common  Law, 
and  espouse  the  cause  of  free  literature,  are  cham- 
pioning a  system  which  is  essentially  undemocratic, 
essentially  inimical  to  the  will  of  the  majority, 
who  have  certainly  no  desire  for  any  such  things 
as  advancing  thought  and  speculation.  Such  per- 
sons, indeed,  merely  hold  the  faith  that  the  People, 

242 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

as  a  whole,  unprotected  by  the  despotic  judgments  of 
single  persons,  have  enough  strength  and  wisdom  to 
know  what  is  and  what  is  not  harmful  to  themselves. 
They  put  their  trust  in  a  Public  Press  and  a  Common 
Law,  which  deriving  from  the  Conscience  of  the  Coun- 
try, is  openly  administered  and  within  the  reach  of  all. 
How  absurd,  how  inadequate  this  all  is  we  see 
from  the  existence  of  the  Censorship  on  Drama. 

Having  observed  that  there  is  no  reason  what- 
ever for  the  exemption  of  Literature,  let  us  now 
turn  to  the  case  of  Art.  Every  picture  hung  hi  a 
gallery,  every  statue  placed  on  a  pedestal,  is  ex- 
posed to  the  public  stare  of  a  mixed  company. 
Why,  then,  have  we  no  Censorship  to  protect  us 
from  the  possibility  of  encountering  works  that 
bring  blushes  to  the  cheek  of  the  young  person? 
The  reason  cannot  be  that  the  proprietors  of  Gal- 
leries are  more  worthy  of  trust  than  the  managers 
of  Theatres;  this  would  be  to  make  an  odious  dis- 
tinction which  those  very  Managers  who  uphold 
the  Censorship  of  Plays  would  be  the  first  to  resent. 
It  is  true  that  Societies  of  artists  and  the  pro- 
prietors of  Galleries  are  subject  to  the  prosecution 
of  the  Law  if  they  offend  against  the  ordinary 
standards  of  public  decency;  but  precisely  the 
same  liability  attaches  to  theatrical  managers  and 
proprietors  of  Theatres,  in  whose  case  it  has  been 

243 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

found  necessary  and  beneficial  to  add  the  Censor- 
ship. And  in  this  connection  let  it  once  more  be 
noted  how  much  more  easily  the  ordinary  stand- 
ards of  public  decency  can  be  assessed  by  a  single 
person  responsible  to  no  one,  than  by  the  clumsy 
(if  more  open)  process  of  public  protest. 

What,  then,  in  the  light  of  the  proved  justice 
and  efficiency  of  the  Censorship  of  Drama,  is  the 
reason  for  the  absence  of  the  Censorship  of  Art? 
The  more  closely  the  matter  is  regarded,  the  more 
plain  it  is,  that  there  is  none!  At  any  moment  we 
may  have  to  look  upon  some  painting,  or  con- 
template some  statue,  as  tragic,  heart-rending,  and 
dubiously  delicate  in  theme  as  that  censured  play 
"The  Cenci,"  by  one  Shelley;  as  dangerous  to 
prejudice,  and  suggestive  of  new  thought  as  the 
censured  "  Ghosts, "  by  one  Ibsen.  Let  us  protest 
against  this  peril  suspended  over  our  heads,  and  de- 
mand the  immediate  appointment  of  a  single  person 
not  selected  for  any  pretentiously  artistic  feelings, 
but  endowed  with  summary  powers  of  prohibiting 
the  exhibition,  in  public  galleries  or  places,  of  such 
works  as  he  shall  deem,  in  his  uncontrolled  discre- 
tion, unsuited  to  average  intelligence  or  sensibility. 
Let  us  demand  it  in  the  interest,  not  only  of  the 
young  person,  but  of  those  whole  sections  of  the 
community  which  cannot  be  expected  to  take  an 

244 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

interest  in  Art,  and  to  whom  the  purpose,  specula- 
tions, and  achievements  of  great  artists,  working 
not  only  for  to-day  but  for  to-morrow,  must  natu- 
rally be  dark  riddles.  Let  us  even  require  that  this 
official  should  be  empowered  to  order  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  works  which  he  has  deemed  unsuited 
to  average  intelligence  and  sensibility,  lest  their 
creators  should,  by  private  sale,  make  a  profit  out 
of  them,  such  as,  in  the  nature  of  the  case,  Dra- 
matic Authors  are  debarred  from  making  out 
of  plays  which,  having  been  censured,  cannot  be 
played  for  money.  Let  us  ask  this  with  con- 
fidence; for  it  is  not  compatible  with  common  jus- 
tice that  there  should  be  any  favouring  of  Painter 
over  Playwright.  They  are  both  artists — let  them 
both  be  measured  by  the  same  last! 

But  let  us  now  consider  the  case  of  Science.  It 
will  not,  indeed  cannot,  be  contended  that  the  in- 
vestigations of  scientific  men,  whether  committed 
to  writing  or  to  speech,  are  always  suited  to  the 
taste  and  capacities  of  our  general  public.  There 
was,  for  example,  the  well-known  doctrine  of 
Evolution,  the  teachings  of  Charles  Darwin  and 
Alfred  Russel  Wallace,  who  gathered  up  certain 
facts,  hitherto  but  vaguely  known,  into  present- 
ments, irreverent  and  startling,  which,  at  the  time, 
profoundly  disturbed  every  normal  mind.  Not 

245 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

only  did  religion,  as  then  accepted,  suffer  in  this 
cataclysm,  but  our  taste  and  feeling  were  inex- 
pressibly shocked  by  the  discovery,  so  emphasised 
by  Thomas  Henry  Huxley,  of  Man's  descent  from 
Apes.  It  was  felt,  and  is  felt  by  many  to  this  day, 
that  the  advancement  of  that  theory  grossly  and 
dangerously  violated  every  canon  of  decency. 
What  pain,  then,  might  have  been  averted,  what 
far-reaching  consequences  and  incalculable  sub- 
version of  primitive  faiths  checked,  if  some  judi- 
cious Censor  of  scientific  thought  had  existed  in 
those  days  to  demand,  in  accordance  with  his 
private  estimate  of  the  will  and  temper  of  the 
majority,  the  suppression  of  the  doctrine  of  Evolu- 
tion. 

Innumerable  investigations  of  scientists  on  sub- 
jects such  as  the  date  of  the  world's  creation,  have 
from  time  to  time  been  summarised  and  incon- 
siderately sprung  on  a  Public  shocked  and  startled 
by  the  revelation  that  facts  which  they  were  accus- 
tomed to  revere  were  conspicuously  at  fault.  So, 
too,  in  the  range  of  medicine,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  cite  any  radical  discovery  (such  as  the  preven- 
tive power  of  vaccination),  whose  unchecked 
publication  has  not  violated  the  prejudices  and 
disturbed  the  immediate  comfort  of  the  common 
mind.  Had  these  discoveries  been  judiciously 

246 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

suppressed,  or  pared  away  to  suit  what  a  Cen- 
sorship conceived  to  be  the  popular  palate  of  the 
time,  all  this  disturbance  and  discomfort  might 
have  been  avoided. 

It  will  doubtless  be  contended  (for  there  are  no 
such  violent  opponents  of  Censorship  as  those 
who  are  threatened  with  the  same)  that  to  com- 
pare a  momentous  disclosure,  such  as  the  doctrine 
of  Evolution,  to  a  mere  drama,  were  unprofit- 
able. The  answer  to  this  ungenerous  contention 
is  fortunately  plain.  Had  a  judicious  Censor- 
ship existed  over  our  scientific  matters,  such 
as  for  two  hundred  years  has  existed  over  our 
Drama,  scientific  discoveries  would  have  been  no 
more  disturbing  and  momentous  than  those  which  we 
are  accustomed  to  see  made  on  our  nicely  pruned  and 
tutored  stage.  For  not  only  would  the  more  dan- 
gerous and  penetrating  scientific  truths  have  been 
carefully  destroyed  at  birth,  but  scientists,  aware 
that  the  results  of  investigations  offensive  to  ac- 
cepted notions  would  be  suppressed,  would  long 
have  ceased  to  waste  their  time  in  search  of  a 
knowledge  repugnant  to  average  intelligence,  and 
thus  foredoomed,  and  have  occupied  themselves 
with  services  more  agreeable  to  the  public  taste, 
such  as  the  rediscovery  of  truths  already  known 
and  published. 

247 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

Indissolubly  connected  with  the  desirability  of 
a  Censorship  of  Science,  is  the  need  for  Religious 
Censorship.  For  in  this,  assuredly  not  the  least 
important  department  of  the  nation's  life,  we  are 
witnessing  week  by  week  and  year  by  year,  what 
in  the  light  of  the  security  guaranteed  by  the  Cen- 
sorship of  Drama,  we  are  justified  in  terming  an 
alarming  spectacle.  Thousands  of  men  are  li- 
censed to  proclaim  from  their  pulpits,  Sunday 
after  Sunday,  their  individual  beliefs,  quite  re- 
gardless of  the  settled  convictions  of  the  masses  of 
their  congregations.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the 
vast  majority  of  sermons  (like  the  vast  majority  of 
plays)  are,  and  will  always  be,  harmonious  with 
the  feelings  of  the  average  citizen;  for  neither 
priest  nor  playwright  have  customarily  any  such 
peculiar  gift  of  spiritual  daring  as  might  render 
them  unsafe  mentors  of  their  fellows;  and  there 
is  not  wanting  the  deterrent  of  common-sense  to 
keep  them  in  bounds.  Yet  it  can  hardly  be  denied 
that  there  spring  up  at  times  men — like  John  Wes- 
ley or  General  Booth — of  such  incurable  tempera- 
ment as  to  be  capable  of  abusing  their  freedom  by 
the  promulgation  of  doctrine  or  procedure,  diver- 
gent from  the  current  traditions  of  religion.  Nor 
must  it  be  forgotten  that  sermons,  like  plays,  are 
addressed  to  a  mixed  audience  of  families,  and  that 

248 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

the  spiritual  teachings  of  a  lifetime  may  be  de- 
stroyed by  ten  minutes  of  uncensured  pronounce- 
ment from  a  pulpit,  the  while  parents  are  sitting, 
not,  as  in  a  theatre  vested  with  the  right  of  protest, 
but  dumb  and  excoriated  to  the  soul,  watching 
their  children,  perhaps  of  tender  age,  eagerly  drink- 
ing in  words  at  variance  with  that  which  they 
themselves  have  been  at  such  pains  to  instil. 

If  a  set  of  Censors — for  it  would,  as  in  the  case 
of  Literature,  indubitably  require  more  than  one 
(perhaps  one  hundred  and  eighty,  but,  for  reasons 
already  given,  there  should  be  no  difficulty  what- 
ever in  procuring  them)  endowed  with  the  swift 
powers  conferred  by  freedom  from  the  dull  tedium 
of  responsibility,  and  not  remarkable  for  religious 
temperament,  were  appointed,  to  whom  all  ser- 
mons and  public  addresses  on  religious  subjects 
must  be  submitted  before  delivery,  and  whose  duty 
after  perusal  should  be  to  excise  all  portions  not 
conformable  to  their  private  ideas  of  what  was  at 
the  moment  suitable  to  the  Public's  ears,  we  should 
be  far  on  the  road  toward  that  proper  preserva- 
tion of  the  status  quo  so  desirable  if  the  faiths  and 
ethical  standards  of  the  less  exuberantly  spiritual 
masses  are  to  be  maintained  in  their  full  bloom. 
As  things  now  stand,  the  nation  has  absolutely 
nothing  to  safeguard  it  against  religious  progress. 

We  have  seen,  then,  that  Censorship  is  at  least 
249 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

as  necessary  over  Literature,  Art,  Science,  and 
Religion  as  it  is  over  our  Drama.  We  have  now 
to  call  attention  to  the  crowning  need — the  want 
of  a  Censorship  in  Politics. 

If  Censorship  be  based  on  justice,  if  it  be  proved 
to  serve  the  Public  and  to  be  successful  in  its 
lonely  vigil  over  Drama,  it  should,  and  logically 
must  be,  extended  to  all  parallel  cases;  it  cannot, 
it  dare  not,  stop  short  at  Politics.  For,  pre- 
cisely in  this  supreme  branch  of  the  public  life 
are  we  most  menaced  by  the  rule  and  license  of 
the  leading  spirit.  To  appreciate  this  fact,  we 
need  only  examine  the  Constitution  of  the  House 
of  Commons.  Six  hundred  and  seventy  persons 
chosen  from  a  population  numbering  four  and 
forty  millions,  must  necessarily,  whatever  their 
individual  defects,  be  citizens  of  more  than  average 
enterprise,  resource,  and  resolution.  They  are 
elected  for  a  period  that  may  last  five  years. 
Many  of  them  are  ambitious;  some  uncompromis- 
ing; not  a  few  enthusiastically  eager  to  do  some- 
thing for  their  country;  filled  with  designs  and 
aspirations  for  national  or  social  betterment,  with 
which  the  masses,  sunk  in  the  immediate  pursuits 
of  life,  can  in  the  nature  of  things  have  little 
sympathy.  And  yet  we  find  these  men  licensed 
to  pour  forth  at  pleasure,  before  mixed  audiences, 
checked  only  by  Common  Law  and  Common- 

250 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

Sense  political  utterances  which  may  have  the 
gravest,  the  most  terrific  consequences;  utterances 
which  may  at  any  moment  let  loose  revolution,  or 
plunge  the  country  into  war;  which  often,  as  a 
fact,  excite  an  utter  detestation,  terror,  and  mis- 
trust; or  shock  the  most  sacred  domestic  and 
proprietary  convictions  in  the  breasts  of  vast 
majorities  of  their  fellow-countrymen!  And  we 
incur  this  appalling  risk  for  the  want  of  a  single, 
or  at  the  most,  a  handful  of  Censors,  invested 
with  a  simple  but  limitless  discretion  to  excise  or 
to  suppress  entirely  such  political  utterances  as 
may  seem  to  their  private  judgments  calculated 
to  cause  pain  or  moral  disturbance  in  the  average 
man.  The  masses,  it  is  true,  have  their  protection 
and  remedy  against  injudicious  or  inflammatory 
politicians  in  the  Law  and  the  so-called  demo- 
cratic process  of  election;  but  we  have  seen  that 
theatre  audiences  have  also  the  protection  of  the 
Law,  and  the  remedy  of  boycott,  and  that  in  their 
case  this  protection  and  this  remedy  are  not 
deemed  enough.  What,  then,  shall  we  say  of 
the  case  of  Politics,  where  the  dangers  attending 
inflammatory  or  subversive  utterance  are  greater 
a  million  fold,  and  the  remedy  a  thousand  times 
less  expeditious? 

Our  Legislators  have  laid  down  Censorship  as 
251 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

the  basic  principle  of  Justice  underlying  the  civic 
rights  of  dramatists.  Then,  let  "Censorship  for 
all"  be  their  motto,  and  this  country  no  longer 
be  ridden  and  destroyed  by  free  Institutions !  Let 
them  not  only  establish  forthwith  Censorships  of 
Literature,  Art,  Science,  and  Religion,  but  also 
place  themselves  beneath  the  regimen  with  which 
they  have  calmly  fettered  Dramatic  Authors. 
They  cannot  deem  it  becoming  to  their  regard  for 
justice,  to  their  honour,  to  their  sense  of  humour, 
to  recoil  from  a  restriction  which,  in  a  parallel 
case  they  have  imposed  on  others.  It  is  an  old 
and  homely  saying  that  good  officers  never  place 
their  men  in  positions  they  would  not  themselves 
be  willing  to  fill.  And  we  are  not  entitled  to  be- 
lieve that  our  Legislators,  having  set  Dramatic 
Authors  where  they  have  been  set,  will — now  that 
their  duty  is  made  plain — for  a  moment  hesitate 
to  step  down  and  stand  alongside. 

But  if  by  any  chance  they  should  recoil,  and 
thus  make  answer:  "We  are  ready  at  all  times  to 
submit  to  the  Law  and  the  People's  will,  and  to 
bow  to  their  demands,  but  we  cannot  and  must  not 
be  asked  to  place  our  calling,  our  duty,  and  our 
honour  beneath  the  irresponsible  rule  of  an  ar- 
bitrary autocrat,  however  sympathetic  with  the 
generality  he  may  chance  to  be!"  Then,  we 

252 


ABOUT  CENSORSHIP 

would  ask:  "Sirs,  did  you  ever  hear  of  that  great 
saying:  'Do  unto  others  as  ye  would  they  should 
do  unto  you!'"  For  it  is  but  fair  presumption 
that  the  Dramatists,  whom  our  Legislators  have 
placed  in  bondage  to  a  despot,  are,  no  less  than 
those  Legislators,  proud  of  their  calling,  conscious 
of  their  duty,  and  jealous  of  their  honour. 

1909. 


253 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

IT  was  on  a  day  of  rare  beauty  that  I  went  out 
into  the  fields  to  try  and  gather  these  few 
thoughts.  So  golden  and  sweetly  hot  it  was,  that 
they  came  lazily,  and  with  a  flight  no  more  co- 
herent or  responsible  than  the  swoop  of  the  very 
swallows;  and,  as  in  a  play  or  poem,  the  result 
is  conditioned  by  the  conceiving  mood,  so  I  knew 
would  be  the  nature  of  my  diving,  dipping,  pale- 
throated,  fork-tailed  words.  But,  after  all — I 
thought,  sitting  there — I  need  not  take  my  critical 
pronouncements  seriously.  I  have  not  the  firm 
soul  of  the  critic.  It  is  not  my  profession  to  know 
things  for  certain,  and  to  make  others  feel  that 
certainty.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  often  wrong — 
a  luxury  no  critic  can  afford.  And  so,  invading 
as  I  was  the  realm  of  others,  I  advanced  with  a 
light  pen,  feeling  that  none,  and  least  of  all  my- 
self, need  expect  me  to  be  right. 

What  then — I  thought — is  Art?  For  I  per- 
ceived that  to  think  about  it  I  must  first  define  it; 
and  I  almost  stopped  thinking  at  all  before  the 
fearsome  nature  of  that  task.  Then  slowly  in  my 
mind  gathered  this  group  of  words : 

254 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

Art  is  that  imaginative  expression  of  human 
energy,  which,  through  technical  concretion  of 
feeling  and  perception,  tends  to  reconcile  the  in- 
dividual with  the  universal,  by  exciting  in  him 
impersonal  emotion.  And  the  greatest  Art  is 
that  which  excites  the  greatest  impersonal  emo- 
tion in  an  hypothecated  perfect  human  being. 

Impersonal  emotion!  And  what — I  thought — 
do  I  mean  by  that?  Surely  I  mean:  That  is  not 
Art,  which,  while  I  am  contemplating  it,  inspires 
me  with  any  active  or  directive  impulse;  that  is 
Art,  when,  for  however  brief  a  moment,  it  re- 
places within  me  interest  in  myself  by  interest  in 
itself.  For,  let  me  suppose  myself  in  the  presence 
of  a  carved  marble  bath.  If  my  thoughts  be: 
"What  could  I  buy  that  for?"  Impulse  of  ac- 
quisition; or:  "From  what  quarry  did  it  come?" 
Impulse  of  inquiry;  or:  "Which  would  be  the 
right  end  for  my  head?"  Mixed  impulse  of 
inquiry  and  acquisition — I  am  at  that  moment 
insensible  to  it  as  a  work  of  Art.  But,  if  I  stand 
before  it  vibrating  at  sight  of  its  colour  and  forms, 
if  ever  so  little  and  for  ever  so  short  a  time,  un- 
haunted  by  any  definite  practical  thought  or  im- 
pulse— to  that  extent  and  for  that  moment  it  has 
stolen  me  away  out  of  myself  and  put  itself  there 
instead;  has  linked  me  to  the  universal  by  making 

255 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

me  forget  the  individual  in  me.  And  for  that 
moment,  and  only  while  that  moment  lasts,  it  is 
to  me  a  work  of  Art.  The  word  "impersonal," 
then,  is  but  used  in  this  my  definition  to  signify 
momentary  forgetfulness  of  one's  own  personality 
and  its  active  wants. 

So  Art — I  thought — is  that  which,  heard,  read, 
or  looked  on,  while  producing  no  directive  im- 
pulse, warms  one  with  unconscious  vibration.  Nor 
can  I  imagine  any  means  of  defining  what  is  the 
greatest  Art,  without  hypothecating  a  perfect 
human  being.  But  since  we  shall  never  see,  or 
know  if  we  do  see,  that  desirable  creature — dog- 
matism is  banished,  "Academy"  is  dead  to  the  dis- 
cussion, deader  than  even  Tolstoy  left  it  after  his 
famous  treatise  "What  is  Art?"  For,  having  de- 
stroyed all  the  old  Judges  and  Academies,  Tolstoy, 
by  saying  that  the  greatest  Art  was  that  which 
appealed  to  the  greatest  number  of  living  human 
beings,  raised  up  the  masses  of  mankind  to  be  a 
definite  new  Judge  or  Academy,  as  tyrannical  and 
narrow  as  ever  were  those  whom  he  had  destroyed. 

This,  at  all  events — I  thought — is  as  far  as  I 
dare  go  in  defining  what  Art  is.  But  let  me  try  to 
make  plain  to  myself  what  is  the  essential  quality 
that  gives  to  Art  the  power  of  exciting  this  un- 
conscious vibration,  this  impersonal  emotion.  It 

256 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

has  been  called  Beauty!  An  awkward  word — a 
perpetual  begging  of  the  question;  too  current 
in  use,  too  ambiguous  altogether;  now  too  narrow, 
now  too  wide — a  word,  in  fact,  too  glib  to  know  at 
all  what  it  means.  And  how  dangerous  a  word — 
often  misleading  us  into  slabbing  with  extraneous 
floridities  what  would  otherwise,  on  its  own  plane, 
be  Art!  To  be  decorative  where  decoration  is  not 
suitable,  to  be  lyrical  where  lyricism  is  out  of  place, 
is  assuredly  to  spoil  Art,  not  to  achieve  it.  But 
this  essential  quality  of  Art  has  also,  and  more 
happily,  been  called  Rhythm.  And,  what  is 
Rhythm  if  not  that  mysterious  harmony  between 
part  and  part,  and  part  and  whole,  which  gives 
what  is  called  life;  that  exact  proportion,  the 
mystery  of  which  is  best  grasped  in  observing  how 
life  leaves  an  animate  creature  when  the  essential 
relation  of  part  to  whole  has  been  sufficiently  dis- 
turbed. And  I  agree  that  this  rhythmic  relation 
of  part  to  part,  and  part  to  whole — in  short, 
vitality — is  the  one  quality  inseparable  from  a 
work  of  Art.  For  nothing  which  does  not  seem 
to  a  man  possessed  of  this  rhythmic  vitality,  can 
ever  steal  him  out  of  himself. 

And  having  got  thus  far  in  my  thoughts,  I 
paused,  watching  the  swallows;  for  they  seemed  to 
me  the  symbol,  in  their  swift,  sure  curvetting,  all 

257 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

daring  and  balance  and  surprise,  of  the  delicate 
poise  and  motion  of  Art,  that  visits  no  two  men 
alike,  in  a  world  where  no  two  things  of  all  the 
things  there  be,  are  quite  the  same. 

Yes — I  thought — and  this  Art  is  the  one  form 
of  human  energy  in  the  whole  world,  which  really 
works  for  union,  and  destroys  the  barriers  between 
man  and  man.  It  is  the  continual,  unconscious 
replacement,  however  fleeting,  of  oneself  by  an- 
other; the  real  cement  of  human  life;  the  ever- 
lasting refreshment  and  renewal.  For,  what  is 
grievous,  dompting,  grim,  about  our  lives  is  that 
we  are  shut  up  within  ourselves,  with  an  itch  to 
get  outside  ourselves.  And  to  be  stolen  away  from 
ourselves  by  Art  is  a  momentary  relaxation  from 
that  itching,  a  minute's  profound,  and  as  it  were 
secret,  enfranchisement.  The  active  amusements 
and  relaxations  of  life  can  only  rest  certain  of  our 
faculties,  by  indulging  others;  the  whole  self  is 
never  rested  save  through  that  unconsciousness 
of  self,  which  comes  through  rapt  contemplation 
of  Nature  or  of  Art. 

And  suddenly  I  remembered  that  some  believe 
that  Art  does  not  produce  unconsciousness  of  self, 
but  rather  very  vivid  self-realisation. 

Ah!  but — I  thought — that  is  not  the  first  and 
instant  effect  of  Art;  the  new  impetus  is  the  after 

258 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

effect  of  that  momentary  replacement  of  oneself 
by  the  self  of  the  work  before  us;  it  is  surely  the 
result  of  that  brief  span  of  enlargement,  enfran- 
chisement, and  rest. 

Yes,  Art  is  the  great  and  universal  refreshment. 
For  Art  is  never  dogmatic;  holds  no  brief  for  itself 
— you  may  take  it  or  you  may  leave  it.  It  does 
not  force  itself  rudely  where  it  is  not  wanted.  It 
is  reverent  to  all  tempers,  to  all  points  of  view. 
But  it  is  wilful — the  very  wind  in  the  comings  and 
goings  of  its  influence,  an  uncapturable  fugitive, 
visiting  our  hearts  at  vagrant,  sweet  moments; 
since  we  often  stand  even  before  the  greatest  works 
of  Art  without  being  able  quite  to  lose  ourselves! 
That  restful  oblivion  comes,  we  never  quite  know 
when — and  it  is  gone!  But  when  it  comes,  it  is  a 
spirit  hovering  with  cool  wings,  blessing  us  from 
least  to  greatest,  according  to  our  powers;  a 
spirit  deathless  and  varied  as  human  life  itself. 

And  in  what  sort  of  age — I  thought — are  artists 
living  now?  Are  conditions  favourable?  Life 
is  very  multiple;  full  of  "movements,"  "facts," 
and  "news";  with  the  limelight  terribly  turned 
on — and  all  this  is  adverse  to  the  artist.  Yet, 
leisure  is  abundant;  the  facilities  for  study 
great;  Liberty  is  respected — more  or  less.  But, 
there  is  one  great  reason  why,  in  this  age  of 

259 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

ours,  Art,  it  seems,  must  flourish.  For,  just  as 
cross-breeding  in  Nature — if  it  be  not  too  vio- 
lent— often  gives  an  extra  vitality  to  the  offspring, 
so  does  cross-breeding  of  philosophies  make  for 
vitality  in  Art.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  his- 
torians, looking  back  from  the  far  future,  will  re- 
cord this  age  as  the  Third  Renaissance.  We  who 
are  lost  in  it,  working  or  looking  on,  can  neither 
tell  what  we  are  doing,  nor  where  standing;  but 
we  cannot  help  observing,  that,  just  as  in  the  Greek 
Renaissance,  worn-out  Pagan  orthodoxy  was  pene- 
trated by  new  philosophy;  just  as  in  the  Italian 
Renaissance,  Pagan  philosophy,  reasserting  itself, 
fertilised  again  an  already  too  inbred  Christian 
creed;  so  now  Orthodoxy  fertilised  by  Science  is 
producing  a  fresh  and  fuller  conception  of  life — a 
love  of  Perfection,  not  for  hope  of  reward,  not  for 
fear  of  punishment,  but  for  Perfection's  sake. 
Slowly,  under  our  feet,  beneath  our  consciousness, 
is  forming  that  new  philosophy,  and  it  is  in  times 
of  new  philosophies  that  Art,  itself  in  essence  al- 
ways a  discovery,  must  flourish.  Those  whose 
sacred  suns  and  moons  are  ever  in  the  past,  tell 
us  that  our  Art  is  going  to  the  dogs;  and  it  is,  in- 
deed, true  that  we  are  in  confusion!  The  waters 
are  broken,  and  every  nerve  and  sinew  of  the  artist 
is  strained  to  discover  his  own  safety.  It  is  an  age 

260 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

of  stir  and  change,  a  season  of  new  wine  and  old 
bottles.  Yet,  assuredly,  in  spite  of  breakages  and 
waste,  a  wine  worth  the  drinking  is  all  the  time 
being  made. 

I  ceased  again  to  think,  for  the  sun  had  dipped 
low,  and  the  midges  were  biting  me;  and  the 
sounds  of  evening  had  begun,  those  innumerable 
far-travelling  sounds  of  man  and  bird  and  beast — 
so  clear  and  intimate — of  remote  countrysides  at 
sunset.  And  for  long  I  listened,  too  vague  to 
move  my  pen. 

New  philosophy — a  vigorous  Art!  Are  there 
not  all  the  signs  of  it?  In  music,  sculpture,  paint- 
ing; in  fiction — and  drama;  in  dancing;  in  criti- 
cism itself,  if  criticism  be  an  Art.  Yes,  we  are 
reaching  out  to  a  new  faith  not  yet  crystallised, 
to  a  new  Art  not  yet  perfected;  the  forms  still  to 
find — the  flowers  still  to  fashion! 

And  how  has  it  come,  this  slowly  growing  faith 
in  Perfection  for  Perfection's  sake?  Surely  like 
this:  The  Western  world  awoke  one  day  to  find 
that  it  no  longer  believed  corporately  and  for  cer- 
tain in  future  life  for  the  individual  consciousness. 
It  began  to  feel:  I  cannot  say  more  than  that 
there  may  be — Death  may  be  the  end  of  man, 
or  Death  may  be  nothing.  And  it  began  to  ask 
itself  in  this  uncertainty:  Do  I  then  desire  to 

261 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

go  on  living?  Now,  since  it  found  that  it  desired 
to  go  on  living  at  least  as  earnestly  as  ever  it 
did  before,  it  began  to  inquire  why.  And  slowly 
it  perceived  that  there  was,  inborn  within  it,  a 
passionate  instinct  of  which  it  had  hardly  till  then 
been  conscious — a  sacred  instinct  to  perfect  itself, 
now,  as  well  as  in  a  possible  hereafter;  to  perfect 
itself  because  Perfection  was  desirable,  a  vision 
to  be  adored,  and  striven  for;  a  dream  motive 
fastened  within  the  Universe;  the  very  essential 
Cause  of  everything.  And  it  began  to  see  that 
this  Perfection,  cosmically,  was  nothing  but  per- 
fect Equanimity  and  Harmony;  and  in  human 
relations,  nothing  but  perfect  Love  and  Justice. 
And  Perfection  began  to  glow  before  the  eyes  of 
the  Western  world  like  a  new  star,  whose  light 
touched  with  glamour  all  things  as  they  came  forth 
from  Mystery,  till  to  Mystery  they  were  ready  to 
return. 

This — I  thought — is  surely  what  the  Western 
world  has  dimly  been  rediscovering.  There  has 
crept  into  our  minds  once  more  the  feeling  that  the 
Universe  is  all  of  a  piece,  Equipoise  supreme;  and 
all  things  equally  wonderful,  and  mysterious,  and 
valuable.  We  have  begun,  in  fact,  to  have  a 
glimmering  of  the  artist's  creed,  that  nothing  may 
we  despise  or  neglect — that  everything  is  worth  the 

262 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

doing  well,  the  making  fair — that  our  God,  Per- 
fection, is  implicit  everywhere,  and  the  revelation 
of  Him  the  business  of  our  Art. 

And  as  I  jotted  down  these  words  I  noticed  that 
some  real  stars  had  crept  up  into  the  sky,  so  grad- 
ually darkening  above  the  pollard  lime-trees; 
cuckoos,  who  had  been  calling  on  the  thorn-trees 
all  the  afternoon,  were  silent ;  the  swallows  no  long- 
er flirted  past,  but  a  bat  was  already  in  career  over 
the  holly  hedge ;  and  round  me  the  buttercups  were 
closing.  The  whole  form  and  feeling  of  the  world 
had  changed,  so  that  I  seemed  to  have  before  me  a 
new  picture  hanging. 

Ah!  I  thought — Art  must  indeed  be  priest  of 
this  new  faith  in  Perfection,  whose  motto  is :  "  Har- 
mony, Proportion,  Balance."  For  by  Art  alone 
can  true  harmony  in  human  affairs  be  fostered, 
true  Proportion  revealed,  and  true  Equipoise 
preserved.  Is  not  the  training  of  an  artist  a  train- 
ing in  the  due  relation  of  one  thing  with  another, 
and  in  the  faculty  of  expressing  that  relation 
clearly;  and,  even  more,  a  training  in  the  faculty 
of  disengaging  from  self  the  very  essence  of  self 
— and  passing  that  essence  into  other  selves  by  so 
delicate  means  that  none  shall  see  how  it  is  done, 
yet  be  insensibly  unified?  Is  not  the  artist,  of  all 
men,  foe  and  nullifier  of  partisanship  and  parochial- 

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CONCERNING  LETTERS 

ism,  of  distortions  and  extravagance,  the  dis- 
coverer of  that  jack-o'-lantern — Truth;  for,  if 
Truth  be  not  Spiritual  Proportion  I  know  not  what 
it  is.  Truth — it  seems  to  me — is  no  absolute 
thing,  but  always  relative,  the  essential  symmetry 
in  the  varying  relationships  of  life;  and  the  most 
perfect  truth  is  but  the  concrete  expression  of  the 
most  penetrating  vision.  Life  seen  throughout  as 
a  countless  show  of  the  finest  works  of  Art;  Life 
shaped,  and  purged  of  the  irrelevant,  the  gross, 
and  the  extravagant;  Life,  as  it  were,  spiritually 
selected — that  is  Truth;  a  thing  as  multiple,  and 
changing,  as  subtle,  and  strange,  as  Life  itself, 
and  as  little  to  be  bound  by  dogma.  Truth  ad- 
mits but  the  one  rule:  No  deficiency,  and  no  ex- 
cess! Disobedient  to  that  rule — nothing  attains 
full  vitality.  And  secretly  fettered  by  that  rule  is 
Art,  whose  business  is  the  creation  of  vital  things. 
That  aesthete,  to  be  sure,  was  right,  when  he 
said :  "  It  is  Style  that  makes  one  believe  in  a  thing ; 
nothing  but  Style. "  For,  what  is  Style  in  its  true 
and  broadest  sense  save  fidelity  to  idea  and  mood, 
and  perfect  balance  in  the  clothing  of  them?  And 
I  thought:  Can  one  believe  in  the  decadence  of 
Art  in  an  age  which,  however  unconsciously  as  yet, 
is  beginning  to  worship  that  which  Art  worships — 
Perfection—Style? 

264 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

The  faults  of  our  Arts  to-day  are  the  faults  of 
zeal  and  of  adventure,  the  faults  and  crudities  of 
pioneers,  the  errors  and  mishaps  of  the  explorer. 
They  must  pass  through  many  fevers,  and  many 
times  lose  their  way;  but  at  all  events  they  shall 
not  go  dying  in  their  beds,  and  be  buried  at  Kensal 
Green.  And,  here  and  there,  amid  the  disasters  and 
wreckage  of  their  voyages  of  discovery,  they  will 
find  something  new,  some  fresh  way  of  embellish- 
ing life,  or  of  revealing  the  heart  of  things.  That 
characteristic  of  to-day's  Art — the  striving  of  each 
branch  of  Art  to  burst  its  own  boundaries — which 
to  many  spells  destruction,  is  surely  of  happy 
omen.  The  novel  straining  to  become  the  play, 
the  play  the  novel,  both  trying  to  paint;  music 
striving  to  become  story;  poetry  gasping  to  be 
music;  painting  panting  to  be  philosophy;  forms, 
canons,  rules,  all  melting  in  the  pot;  stagnation 
broken  up!  In  all  this  havoc  there  is  much  to 
shock  and  jar  even  the  most  eager  and  adventu- 
rous. We  cannot  stand  these  new-fangled  fellows! 
They  have  no  form!  They  rush  in  where  angels 
fear  to  tread.  They  have  lost  all  the  good  of  the 
old,  and  given  us  nothing  in  its  place !  And  yet — 
only  out  of  stir  and  change  is  born  new  salvation. 
To  deny  that  is  to  deny  belief  in  man,  to  turn  our 
backs  on  courage!  It  is  well,  indeed,  that  some 

265 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

should  live  in  closed  studies  with  the  paintings  and 
the  books  of  yesterday — such  devoted  students 
serve  Art  in  their  own  way.  But  the  fresh-air 
world  will  ever  want  new  forms.  We  shall  not 
get  them  without  faith  enough  to  risk  the  old! 
The  good  will  live,  the  bad  will  die;  and  to-mor- 
row only  can  tell  us  which  is  which! 

Yes — I  thought — we  naturally  take  a  too  im- 
patient view  of  the  Art  of  our  own  time,  since  we 
can  neither  see  the  ends  toward  which  it  is  almost 
blindly  groping,  nor  the  few  perfected  creations 
that  will  be  left  standing  amidst  the  rubble  of 
abortive  effort.  An  age  must  always  decry  it- 
self and  extol  its  forbears.  The  unwritten  his- 
tory of  every  Art  will  show  us  that.  Consider  the 
novel — that  most  recent  form  of  Art !  Did  not  the 
age  which  followed  Fielding  lament  the  treachery 
of  authors  to  the  Picaresque  tradition,  complain- 
ing that  they  were  not  as  Fielding  and  Smollett 
were?  Be  sure  they  did.  Very  slowly  and  in 
spite  of  opposition  did  the  novel  attain  in  this 
country  the  fulness  of  that  biographical  form 
achieved  under  Thackeray.  Very  slowly,  and  in 
face  of  condemnation,  it  has  been  losing  that  form 
in  favour  of  a  greater  vividness  which  places  be- 
fore the  reader's  brain,  not  historical  statements, 
as  it  were,  of  motives  and  of  facts,  but  word-paint- 

266 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

ings  of  things  and  persons,  so  chosen  and  arranged 
that  the  reader  may  see,  as  if  at  first  hand,  the 
spirit  of  Life  at  work  before  him.  The  new  novel 
has  as  many  bemoaners  as  the  old  novel  had  when 
it  was  new.  It  is  no  question  of  better  or  worse, 
but  of  differing  forms — of  change  dictated  by 
gradual  suitability  to  the  changing  conditions  of 
our  social  life,  and  to  the  ever  fresh  discoveries  of 
craftsmen,  in  the  intoxication  of  which,  old  and 
equally  worthy  craftsmanship  is — by  the  way — too 
often  for  the  moment  mislaid.  The  vested  interests 
of  lif e  favour  the  line  of  least  resistance — disliking 
and  revolting  against  disturbance;  but  one  must 
always  remember  that  a  spurious  glamour  is  in- 
clined to  gather  around  what  is  new.  And,  be- 
cause of  these  two  deflecting  factors,  those  who 
break  through  old  forms  must  well  expect  to  be 
dead  before  the  new  forms  they  have  unconsciously 
created  have  found  their  true  level,  high  or  low, 
in  the  world  of  Art.  When  a  thing  is  new — how 
shall  it  be  judged?  In  the  fluster  of  meeting 
novelty,  we  have  even  seen  coherence  attempting 
to  bind  together  two  personalities  so  fundamentally 
opposed  as  those  of  Ibsen  and  Bernard  Shaw — 
dramatists  with  hardly  a  quality  in  common;  no 
identity  of  tradition,  or  belief;  not  the  faintest 
resemblance  in  methods  of  construction  or  tech* 

267 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

nique.  Yet  contemporary  estimate  talks  of  them 
often  in  the  same  breath.  They  are  new!  It  is 
enough.  And  others,  as  utterly  unlike  them  both. 
They  too  are  new.  They  have  as  yet  no  label  of 
their  own — then  put  on  some  one  else's! 

And  so— I  thought — it  must  always  be;  for 
Tune  is  essential  to  the  proper  placing  and  esti- 
mate of  all  Art.  And  is  it  not  this  feeling,  that  con- 
temporary judgments  are  apt  to  turn  out  a  little 
ludicrous,  which  has  converted  much  criticism  of 
late  from  judgment  pronounced  into  impression 
recorded — recreative  statement — a  kind,  in  fact, 
of  expression  of  the  critic's  self,  elicited  through 
contemplation  of  a  book,  a  play,  a  symphony,  a 
picture?  For  this  kind  of  criticism  there  has 
even  recently  been  claimed  an  actual  identity 
with  creation.  ^Esthetic  judgment  and  creative 
power  identical!  That  is  a  hard  saying.  For, 
however  sympathetic  one  may  feel  toward  this 
new  criticism,  however  one  may  recognise  that 
the  recording  of  impression  has  a  wider,  more 
elastic,  and  more  lasting  value  than  the  delivery 
of  arbitrary  judgment  based  on  rigid  laws  of  taste; 
however  one  may  admit  that  it  approaches  the 
creative  gift  in  so  far  as  it  demands  the  qualities 
of  receptivity  and  reproduction — is  there  not  still 
lacking  to  this  "new"  critic  something  of  that 

268 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART     . 

thirsting  spirit  of  discovery,  which  precedes  the 
creation — hitherto  so-called — of  anything?  Criti- 
cism, taste,  aesthetic  judgment,  by  the  very  nature 
of  their  task,  wait  till  life  has  been  focussed  by  the 
artists  before  they  attempt  to  reproduce  the  image 
which  that  imprisoned  fragment  of  life  makes  on 
the  mirror  of  their  minds.  But  a  thing  created 
springs  from  a  germ  unconsciously  implanted  by 
the  direct  impact  of  unfettered  life  on  the  whole 
range  of  the  creator's  temperament;  and  round  the 
germ  thus  engendered,  the  creative  artist — ever 
penetrating,  discovering,  selecting — goes  on  build- 
ing cell  on  cell,  gathered  from  a  million  little  fresh 
impacts  and  visions.  And  to  say  that  this  is  also 
exactly  what  the  recreative  critic  does,  is  to  say 
that  the  interpretative  musician  is  creator  in  the 
same  sense  as  is  the  composer  of  the  music  that  he 
interprets.  If,  indeed,  these  processes  be  the  same 
in  kind,  they  are  in  degree  so  far  apart  that  one 
would  think  the  word  creative  unfortunately  used 
of  both.  .  .  . 

But  this  speculation — I  thought — is  going  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  vagueness.  Let  there  be  some 
thread  of  coherence  in  your  thoughts,  as  there  is  in 
the  progress  of  this  evening,  fast  fading  into  night. 
Return  to  the  consideration  of  the  nature  and  pur- 
poses of  Art!  And  recognize  that  much  of  what 

269 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

you  have  thought  will  seem  on  the  face  of  it  heresy 
to  the  school  whose  doctrine  was  incarnated  by 
Oscar  Wilde  in  that  admirable  apotheosis  of  half- 
truths:  "The  Decay  of  the  Art  of  Lying."  For 
therein  he  said:  "No  great  artist  ever  sees  things 
as  they  really  are."  Yet,  that  half-truth  might 
also  be  put  thus :  The  seeing  of  things  as  they  really 
are — the  seeing  of  a  proportion  veiled  from  other 
eyes  (together  with  the  power  of  expression),  is 
what  makes  a  man  an  artist.  What  makes  him 
a  great  artist  is  a  high  fervour  of  spirit,  which  pro- 
duces a  superlative,  instead  of  a  comparative, 
clarity  of  vision. 

Close  to  my  house  there  is  a  group  of  pines  with 
gnarled  red  limbs  flanked  by  beech-trees.  And 
there  is  often  a  very  deep  blue  sky  behind.  Gener- 
ally, that  is  all  I  see.  But,  once  in  a  way,  in  those 
trees  against  that  sky  I  seem  to  see  all  the  passion- 
ate life  and  glow  that  Titian  painted  into  his  pagan 
pictures.  I  have  a  vision  of  mysterious  meaning, 
of  a  mysterious  relation  between  that  sky  and  those 
trees  with  their  gnarled  red  limbs  and  Life  as  I 
know  it.  And  when  I  have  had  that  vision  I  al- 
ways feel,  this  is  reality,  and  all  those  other  times, 
when  I  have  no  such  vision,  simple  unreality.  If  I 
were  a  painter,  it  is  for  such  fervent  vision  I  should 
wait,  before  moving  brush.  This,  so  intimate, 

270 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

inner  vision  of  reality,  indeed,  seems  in  duller 
moments  wellnigh  grotesque;  and  hence  that  other 
glib  half-truth:  "Art  is  greater  than  Life  itself." 
Art  is,  indeed,  greater  than  Life  in  the  sense  that 
the  power  of  Art  is  the  disengagement  from  Life 
of  its  real  spirit  and  significance.  But  in  any  other 
sense,  to  say  that  Art  is  greater  than  Life  from 
which  it  emerges,  and  into  which  it  must  remerge, 
can  but  suspend  the  artist  over  Life,  with  his  feet 
in  the  air  and  his  head  in  the  clouds — Prig  mas- 
querading as  Demi-god.  "Nature  is  no  great 
Mother  who  has  borne  us.  She  is  our  creation. 
It  is  in  our  brain  that  she  quickens  to  life. "  Such 
is  the  highest  hyperbole  of  the  aesthetic  creed. 
But  what  is  creative  instinct,  if  not  an  incessant 
living  sympathy  with  Nature,  a  constant  craving 
like  that  of  Nature's  own,  to  fashion  something 
new  out  of  all  that  comes  within  the  grasp  of  those 
faculties  with  which  Nature  has  endowed  us?  The 
qualities  of  vision,  of  fancy,  and  of  imaginative 
power,  are  no  more  divorced  from  Nature,  than 
are  the  qualities  of  common-sense  and  courage. 
They  are  rarer,  that  is  all.  But  in  truth,  no  one 
holds  such  views.  Not  even  those  who  utter 
them.  They  are  the  rhetoric,  the  over-statement 
of  half-truths,  by  such  as  wish  to  condemn  what 
they  call  "Realism,"  without  being  tempera- 

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CONCERNING  LETTERS 

mentally  capable  of  understanding  what  "Real- 
ism" really  is. 

And  what — I  thought — is  Realism?  What  is 
the  meaning  of  that  word  so  wildly  used?  Is  it 
descriptive  of  technique,  or  descriptive  of  the 
spirit  of  the  artist;  or  both,  or  neither?  Was 
Turgenev  a  realist?  No  greater  poet  ever  wrote 
in  prose,  nor  any  one  who  more  closely  brought 
the  actual  shapes  of  men  and  things  before  us. 
No  more  fervent  idealists  than  Ibsen  and  Tolstoy 
ever  lived;  and  none  more  careful  to  make  their 
people  real.  Were  they  realists?  No  more  deeply 
fantastic  writer  can  I  conceive  than  Dostoievsky, 
nor  any  who  has  described  actual  situations  more 
vividly.  Was  he  a  realist?  The  late  Stephen 
Crane  was  called  a  realist.  Than  whom  no  more 
impressionistic  writer  ever  painted  with  words. 
What  then  is  the  heart  of  this  term  still  often  used 
as  an  expression  almost  of  abuse?  To  me,  at  all 
events — I  thought — the  words  realism,  realistic, 
have  no  longer  reference  to  technique,  for  which 
the  words  naturalism,  naturalistic,  serve  far  better. 
Nor  have  they  to  do  with  the  question  of  imagina- 
tive power — as  much  demanded  by  realism  as  by 
romanticism.  For  me,  a  realist  is  by  no  means 
tied  to  naturalistic  technique — he  may  be  poetic, 
idealistic,  fantastic,  impressionistic,  anything  but 

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VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

— romantic;  that,  in  so  far  as  he  is  a  realist,  he 
cannot  be.  The  word,  in  fact,  characterises  that 
artist  whose  temperamental  preoccupation  is  with 
revelation  of  the  actual  inter-relating  spirit  of  life, 
character,  and  thought,  with  a  view  to  enlighten 
himself  and  others;  as  distinguished  from  that 
artist — whom  I  call  romantic — whose  tempera- 
mental purpose  is  invention  of  tale  or  design  with 
a  view  to  delight  himself  and  others.  It  is  a  ques- 
tion of  temperamental  antecedent  motive  in  the 
artist,  and  nothing  more. 

Realist  —  Romanticist!  Enlightenment  —  De- 
light! That  is  the  true  apposition.  To  make 
a  revelation — to  tell  a  fairy-tale!  And  either  of 
these  artists  may  use  what  form  he  likes — natural- 
istic, fantastic,  poetic,  impressionistic.  For  it  is 
not  by  the  form,  but  by  the  purpose  and  mood  of 
his  art  that  he  shall  be  known,  as  one  or  as  the 
other.  Realists  indeed — including  the  half  of 
Shakespeare  that  was  realist — not  being  primarily 
concerned  to  amuse  their  audience,  are  still  com- 
paratively unpopular  in  a  world  made  up  for  the 
greater  part  of  men  of  action,  who  instinctively  re- 
ject all  art  that  does  not  distract  them  without 
causing  them  to  think.  For  thought  makes 
demands  on  an  energy  already  in  full  use;  thought 
causes  introspection;  and  introspection  causes  dis- 

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CONCERNING  LETTERS 

comfort,  and  disturbs  the  grooves  of  action.  To 
say  that  the  object  of  the  realist  is  to  enlighten 
rather  than  to  delight,  is  not  to  say  that  in  his 
art  the  realist*  is  not  amusing  himself  as  much  as 
ever  is  the  teller  of  a  fairy-tale,  though  he  does  not 
deliberately  start  out  to  do  so;  he  is  amusing,  too, 
a  large  part  of  mankind.  For,  admitted  that  the 
object,  and  the  test  of  Art,  is  always  the  awakening 
of  vibration,  of  impersonal  emotion,  it  is  still 
usually  forgotten  that  men  fall,  roughly  speaking, 
into  two  flocks:  Those  whose  intelligence  is  un- 
inquiring  in  the  face  of  Art,  and  does  not  demand 
to  be  appeased  before  their  emotions  can  be 
stirred;  and  those  who,  having  a  speculative  bent 
of  mind,  must  first  be  satisfied  by  an  enlightening 
quality  in  a  work  of  Art,  before  that  work  of  Art 
can  awaken  in  them  feeling.  The  audience  of  the 
realist  is  drawn  from  this  latter  type  of  man;  the 
much  larger  audience  of  the  romantic  artist  from 
the  former;  together  with,  in  both  cases,  those 
fastidious  few  for  whom  all  Art  is  style  and  only 
style,  and  who  welcome  either  kind,  so  long  as  it 
is  good  enough. 

To  me,  then — I  thought — this  division  into 
Realism  and  Romance,  so  understood,  is  the  main 
cleavage  in  all  the  Arts;  but  it  is  hard  to  find  pure 
examples  of  either  kind.  For  even  the  most  de- 

274 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

termined  realist  has  more  than  a  streak  in  him  of 
the  romanticist,  and  the  most  resolute  romanticist 
finds  it  impossible  at  times  to  be  quite  unreal. 
Guido  Reni,  Watteau,  Leighton — were  they  not 
perhaps  somewhat  pure  romanticists;  Rembrandt, 
Hogarth,  Manet — mainly  realists;  Botticelli, 
Titian,  Raphael,  a  blend.  Dumas  pere,  and  Scott, 
surely  romantic;  Flaubert  and  Tolstoy  as  surely 
realists;  Dickens  and  Cervantes,  blended.  Keats 
and  Swinburne — romantic;  Browning  and  Whit- 
man— realistic;  Shakespeare  and  Goethe,  both. 
The  Greek  dramatists — realists.  The  Arabian 
Nights  and  Malory — romantic.  The  Iliad,  the 
Odyssey,  and  the  Old  Testament,  both  realism 
and  romance.  And  if  in  the  vagueness  of  my 
thoughts  I  were  to  seek  for  illustration  less  general 
and  vague  to  show  the  essence  of  this  tempera- 
mental cleavage  in  all  Art,  I  would  take  the  two 
novelists  Turgenev  and  Stevenson.  For  Tur- 
genev  expressed  himself  in  stories  that  must  be 
called  romances,  and  Stevenson  employed  almost 
always  a  naturalistic  technique.  Yet  no  one  would 
ever  call  Turgenev  a  romanticist,  or  Stevenson  a 
realist.  The  spirit  of  the  first  brooded  over  life, 
found  in  it  a  perpetual  voyage  of  spiritual  adven- 
ture, was  set  on  discovering  and  making  clear  to 
himself  and  all,  the  varying  traits  and  emotions 

275 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

of  human  character — the  varying  moods  of  Nature; 
and  though  he  couched  all  this  discovery  in  caskets 
of  engaging  story,  it  was  always  clear  as  day  what 
mood  it  was  that  drove  him  to  dip  pen  in  ink.  The 
spirit  of  the  second,  I  think,  almost  dreaded  to  dis- 
cover; he  felt  life,  I  believe,  too  keenly  to  want  to 
probe  into  it;  he  spun  his  gossamer  to  lure  himself 
and  all  away  from  life.  That  was  his  driving 
mood;  but  the  craftsman  in  him,  longing  to  be 
clear  and  poignant,  made  him  more  natural,  more 
actual  than  most  realists. 

So,  how  thin  often  is  the  hedge!  And  how  poor 
a  business  the  partisan  abuse  of  either  kind  of  art 
hi  a  world  where  each  sort  of  mind  has  full  right  to 
its  own  due  expression,  and  grumbling  lawful 
only  when  due  expression  is  not  attained.  One 
may  not  care  for  a  Rembrandt  portrait  of  a  plain 
old  woman;  a  graceful  Watteau  decoration  may 
leave  another  cold — but  foolish  will  he  be  who 
denies  that  both  are  faithful  to  their  conceiving 
moods,  and  so  proportioned  part  to  part,  and  part 
to  whole,  as  to  have,  each  in  its  own  way,  that  in- 
herent rhythm  or  vitality  which  is  the  hall-mark 
of  Art.  He  is  but  a  poor  philosopher  who  holds  a 
view  so  narrow  as  to  exclude  forms  not  to  his  per- 
sonal taste.  No  realist  can  love  romantic  Art  so 
much  as  he  loves  his  own,  but  when  that  Art  ful- 

276 


VAGUE  THOUGHTS  ON  ART 

fils  the  laws  of  its  peculiar  being,  if  he  would  be  no 
blind  partisan,  he  must  admit  it.  The  romanticist 
will  never  be  amused  by  realism,  but  let  him  not 
for  that  reason  be  so  parochial  as  to  think  that 
realism,  when  it  achieves  vitality,  is  not  Art.  For 
what  is  Art  but  the  perfected  expression  of  self  in 
contact  with  the  world;  and  whether  that  self  be 
of  enlightening,  or  of  fairy-telling  temperament,  is 
of  no  moment  whatsoever.  The  tossing  of  abuse 
from  realist  to  romanticist  and  back  is  but  the 
sword-play  of  two  one-eyed  men  with  their  blind 
side  turned  toward  each  other.  Shall  not  each 
attempt  be  judged  on  its  own  merits?  If  found 
not  shoddy,  faked,  or  forced,  but  true  to  itself, 
true  to  its  conceiving  mood,  and  fair-proportioned 
part  to  whole,  so  that  it  lives — then,  realistic  or 
romantic,  in  the  name  of  Fairness  let  it  pass!  Of 
all  kinds  of  human  energy,  Art  is  surely  the  most 
free,  the  least  parochial;  and  demands  of  us  an 
essential  tolerance  of  all  its  forms.  Shall  we  waste 
breath  and  ink  in  condemnation  of  artists,  be- 
cause their  temperaments  are  not  our  own? 

But  the  shapes  and  colours  of  the  day  were  now 
all  blurred;  every  tree  and  stone  entangled  in  the 
dusk.  How  different  the  world  seemed  from  that 
in  which  I  had  first  sat  down,  with  the  swallows 
flirting  past.  And  my  mood  was  different;  for 

277 


CONCERNING  LETTERS 

each  of  those  worlds  had  brought  to  my  heart  its 
proper  feeling — painted  on  my  eyes  the  just 
picture.  And  Night,  that  was  coming,  would 
bring  me  yet  another  mood  that  would  frame  itself 
with  consciousness  at  its  own  fair  moment,  and 
hang  before  me.  A  quiet  owl  stole  by  in  the  field 
below,  and  vanished  into  the  heart  of  a  tree.  And 
suddenly  above  the  moor-line  I  saw  the  large  moon 
rising.  Cinnamon-coloured,  it  made  all  things 
swim,  made  me  uncertain  of  my  thoughts,  vague 
with  mazy  feeling.  Shapes  seemed  but  drifts  of 
moon-dust,  and  true  reality  nothing  save  a  sort  of 
still  listening  to  the  wind.  And  for  long  I  sat, 
just  watching  the  moon  creep  up,  and  hearing  the 
thin,  diy  rustle  of  the  leaves  along  the  holly  hedge. 
And  there  came  to  me  this  thought:  What  is  this 
Universe — that  never  had  beginning  and  will  never 
have  an  end — but  a  myriad  striving  to  perfect 
pictures  never  the  same,  so  blending  and  fading 
one  into  another,  that  all  form  one  great  perfected 
picture?  And  what  are  we — ripples  on  the  tides 
of  a  birthless,  deathless,  equipoised  Creative  Pur- 
pose— but  little  works  of  Art? 

Trying  to  record  that  thought,  I  noticed  that 
my  note-book  was  damp  with  dew.  The  cattle 
were  lying  down.  It  was  too  dark  to  see. 

1911. 

278 


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JAN  22  19  8 


SEP  18  1986 


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